


Wolf's Blood

by OkieDokieLoki



Series: The Wolves of Baskerville [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/M, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Werewolf Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-02 00:20:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 79,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8643895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkieDokieLoki/pseuds/OkieDokieLoki
Summary: While hunting for the last of Moriarty's web, Sherlock is bitten by a wolf who changes his life, and the lives of those around him, forever.





	1. The Agent and the Government

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this pre-Season 3, so this is an Alternate Universe. I created the character of Sherrinford Holmes, basically stealing the name and nothing else from cannon. He looks like Tom Hiddleston, so I felt the need to release this before he is (or is not) in Season 4. This work was inspired by so many works of Werewolf!Sherlock, so thanks for getting the wheels turning!
> 
> I apologize for any character deviations in advance. I try to remain faithful to the TV show, but then they run away with me!
> 
> I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters of actors that are on the show. The original characters are works of fiction from my own imagination.

The man ran, his legs pumping against the numbing cold of the Serbian night, his lungs burning from the cold. Stumbling slightly in the darkness, his path illuminated by the large disc of the full moon that filtered through the heavy branches of evergreens. The sound of booted footsteps echoing through the woods drove him onward. He needed to get out, make a clean escape, though, from the crashing that grew louder and the whine of chopper blades that split the air, it seemed unlikely. _Two minutes_ , he estimated, given his unfamiliarity with the pine forest that he was running through, the level of darkness that blocked his path, and the pursuit of highly trained guards who were steadily gaining on him.

The chopper swooshed overhead, it’s floodlight scanning the trees, but, graciously, missing him and moving off towards the north. He might make the rendezvous point after all. Then it’d be onto the next, just like the last two years of his life. Hit after hit, con after con, detangling the spider’s seemingly endless web. That was, until a week ago, when he had ended it with a swift bullet that dispatched the final operative. He had gotten careless at that point, thinking himself safe, invincible, and had gotten himself caught, interrogated, and tortured in a Serbian prison for the last week. Escape had not been easy, but his able mind, along with an unexpected visit from his elder brother, had worked it’s way into this stupidity.

The crunch of the feet behind him stopped, his own ragged breathing and the sound of twigs breaking on frost-coated ground beneath his bare feet filled his ears. Nothing else. It was odd, the eery silence. His lungs, burning as his chest heaved, he continued on, knowing that if he halted for even the slightest amount of time, he’d be caught.

Abruptly, a twig snapped directly behind him. Spinning to attack his would-be assailant, he was slammed into the hard, unyielding ground, his head cracking against a fallen branch. A piercing pain wrapped itself around his leg, like a thousand nails being driven into his skin, muscles, and shattering the bones. His back screamed, twisted, tearing open his stitches from his last run-in with a group of Russian thugs who had a penchant for whipping their prisoners cruelly before using them. They had never gotten that far, but his back would bear those long stripes for the rest of his life, which, at the moment, was not going to be for much longer.

_Rapid blood loss from head wound and torn stitches on back. Possible concussion. Leg twisted, knee dislocated or broken. Hypothermia setting in in thirty seconds._ A sharp pain cut through his calculations as his lower leg, still clamped in what could only have been a bear trap, was whipped side to side, tearing the cartilage in his left kneecap and dragging his bleeding body along the ground. As his eyes began to go black ( _Blood loss and pain_ ), he looked down his long, abused body to find himself, not face to face with the prison guards, but looking into the golden eyes of a rather large, grey wolf. ____________________________________

The machines whirred and clicked away, beeping in time with his brother’s steady heart beat. As annoying as the sound was, it brought him comfort. He had nearly lost him, the man lying pale and feverish, swathed in the itchy hospital-grade sheets on the adjustable bed, and Mummy would have killed him if her precious baby had been killed in action.

It had been sheer luck that he had found at all. His underlings, all of whom were highly trained assassins, took out the four men who had surrounded his fallen brother, eliminating them entirely. It was...unfortunate...that none of them survived to be interviewed. It was more unfortunate that, what only could have been an animal that had taken a chunk out of the thin man’s left leg, there was no trace of the beast to be found.

It could have proven useful to have at least seen what it was, as the wound was strange, to say the least. The surgeon had gone in to potentially screw the bits of bone back together, or, more likely, having seen the wreckage of left shin, to amputate the lower half of the limb. Instead, the doctor had flown out of the surgery, eyes wide with shock, and pulled the statesman to the side. The bone had begun to knit, the fragments, slowly, but surely, becoming larger. The frightened doctor cleaned the wounds and then placed a cast on the leg, allowing it’s rapid healing and setting to do it’s own thing.

The lacerations on his back, stitched together after his younger sibling’s previous ordeal, had completely healed in the last 36 hours, leaving massive scars after oozing a strange, clear, shimmering liquid. Curious, as he knew his brother would be, the statesman collected vials of the oddly thick liquid for further evaluation. All bruisings had vanished within the first twelve hours, minor cuts within the first twenty-four. Whatever had happened in that prison and the evergreen forest, it was inexplicable.

His younger sibling, while healing at a tremendous pace, was feverish, maintaining a steady fever of 104. He had sweat through several sets of sheets and hospital gowns over the last day and a half. Despite the fever, his heartbeat, while strong, was slower than the average 60 beat per minute. The younger man’s face twitched from time to time, his brain obviously working despite his unconsciousness. He wondered if his brother dreamed, reliving the nightmare that he had put him through for the last two years. Those events, as well as those that led up to the detangling of the web of the spider, a spider that _he_ had loosed on the populace, led him to one conclusion. _This_ , whatever _this_ was, as much as he hated to admit it, was his fault. As his sibling slumbered, the guilt continued to wear on him.

The beeping became a bit more rapid, drawing the statesman’s attention back to the man in the bed. The dark curls shifted and the head turned from side to side, emitting a low groan.

“Sherlock?” the older man murmured, grasping the hot hand that rested on the stark, white sheets. “Sherlock? Can you hear me?”

Slowly, the heavy, bruised lids flickered open to reveal those strange heterochromic eyes that had defined his brother for decades. They were unfocused scanning to find anything to focus on. Eventually, the swirled and flecked gaze found his face. “My-croft?” The question was posed in a deep yet rough, gravelly voice from a dry throat and an unfocused mind.

Unbidden, a small smile crept across his face. “Little Brother,” he said. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” He allowed sentiment to maintain it’s hold for a few moments longer, squeezing that hand once more before relinquishing it’s grasp. “Well, not technically yet. We need to keep you here, for...observation.”

“Observation?” His brother was obviously having difficulty processing. “Here?” His eyes scanned the off-white panelling, the lack of wallpaper, the heavy door, the medical equipment. “How long have I been in hospital?”

“Well, about a day and a half.” He hesitated, not wanting to deny the rest of the question. “Where am I Mycroft?” His sibling snapped, his lack of patience returning as his eyes became sharp, acutely focused.

He cleared his throat. “Technically, you _are_ in hospital. You’re just not in a normal hospital.” “Where. Am. I?” Sherlocks teeth were clenched and grinding together. Not wanting to set off something _(After all, who knew what was happening inside his brother?_ ) while sitting at his bedside, he breathed out his reply. “Baskerville.”

__________________________________________

He had been at Baskerville for a week and he was bored. Curious but bored. There was something that Mycroft was not telling him, something important, something that was bothering him as the older man had not left the facility for even a moment. That something involved him. And it was something that was obviously bothering his overprotective ( _Though Mycroft would never admit it_ ) older brother.

Sherlock sighed, ruffling his curls with one hand while his other thumb relentlessly clicked the remote control in his hand, changing the channels on the telly rapidly, making the pictures blend together in a crazed dance of a flashy rainbow kaleidoscope. _Bored. Bored. Bored. BORED._ Mycroft had locked him in the room. In fact, he had been handcuffed to the bed. The cuff had come off in less that twenty minutes, of course, thanks to a dislocated thumb and a needle snuck from his injected pain meds. The pain meds did nothing to dull the ache of his encased leg, but the nurse was impressionable and desperate. An easy target.

The door swung open on it’s hinges, bringing his brother into the dull, _boring_ white room. Without looking, the detective berated the man with the umbrella. “Are you going to give up this childish game, Brother? Tell me why you are keeping me here, in this _experimental_ facility? I am not stupid, Mycroft. I know you are keeping something from me. I do not appreciate it.”

“That’s why I’m here.” The sound of a soft, shy voice entered his subconscious. Pausing in his harried channel surfing, he spun his unruly curls towards the still opened door. His breath caught and his lips twitched into a smile.

“Molly Hooper.” His voice held a little well-deserved affection in it. This woman with her thick ginger hair, pretty despite her thin lips and mousy demeanor, had subsequently killed him and then saved his life. “It is good to see you.”

“Hello Sherlock,” she whispered, her head dipping as she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. A soft blush flitted across her cheeks. _Still harboring feelings. Unrequited. But...No. Reciprocated._ He was not interested in her, so it wasn’t him. Not any more. She had moved on. His eyes flitted to the hand that had played with her hair.

“Congratulations appear to be in order,” he droned, noting the substantial diamond on her finger. _Wealthy, clearly devoted. Lawyer, most likely. Older man. Stuffy and boring_.

She blushed more fiercely. “Mycroft,” she smiled at the thought of her fiancé as she spared him a glance. “He’s pretty wonderful.”

The consulting detective blinked rapidly. “Excuse me. The concussion must have been more severe than I initially surmised,” he said, stunned. “I thought you said Mycroft.”

“She did.” His brother materialized out of the white wall, pushing away from it to gracefully lean against his umbrella. He smirked as the younger man stuttered and gulped, shocked by his lack of deduction. “You are getting slow, Brother. However, we are not here to discuss our impending nuptials. We are here to discuss you, as you have been demanding throughout the last week.”

Molly retreated briefly into the hallway and returned with a flimsy hospital wheelchair, pushing it to his bedside. “It’s time to get that cast off.”

“What? Why? I just got it on last week!” Sherlock, while not comprehending why he was being helped into the surprisingly comfortable wheeled chair, did not complain. He needed to see something beyond the four walls around him. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

As his leg was jostled, he grunted, hissing a soft, “Gently!” He gritted his teeth as his leg was placed into the stirrup but he did not voice another complaint. He could almost feel his lungs filling with seemingly fresh air as he was wheeled into the hallway beyond by Molly, Mycroft at her side. _Anything_ was better than that tiny room and that hard bed. He supposed that he should feel grateful, but his curiosity was peaked.

His brain picked up Molly’s chatter and his brother’s silent but strong presence behind him, umbrella swinging graceful arcs through the air. Her voice was chipper as she talked about a whole bunch of things, ignoring his original question. She had been working at the mortuary until he had been brought into Baskerville the previous week. She and Mycroft had grown closer after project LAZARUS, he had been keeping her informed as to his whereabouts. Brief conversations in shady abandoned buildings turned into short meetings in tiny coffee shops and then to romantic dinners. She had met Mummy and Father Holmes and they adored her. Sherlock snorted and smiled, rolling his eyes. Of course his parents approved. They had accepted long ago that they were not going to have grandchildren and now a charming girl had waltzed into their lives, exactly what they had needed after he had disappeared.

The small group was curiously observed by passing individuals dressed in white lab coats who shot them short glances but never stopped or questioned the power of the British government. When they had finally reached their destination, the detective groaned. It was another white, windowless room, the bright lights stinging his eyes. He blinked rapidly, noting the examination table, the x-ray machine, the circular examination light. His nostrils flared, picking up the scent of another human being. His eyes flickered to the only other person in the room while his brain scrambled to understand why he had smelled the man first instead of seeing him.

“Surgeon. Practicing for fifteen years. Smoker. Divorced. No children. One - no two cats. Signed an agreement when he started seeing me.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

The doctor, taken aback by the abrasive personality of his patient, stepped forward. “Mr. Holmes...”

“Sherlock,” the dark haired man snapped. With a mutter, he continued, “Mr. Holmes is over there, leaning against his umbrella wondering when he can have his next piece of cake.”

The other man took a step back, his jaw set against the rather repugnant patient. “Sherlock,” he grated. “You were airlifted here barely alive. You nearly died. Do you _comprehend_ that?!”

Taken aback, the wheel-chair bound man scrunched his brow. The surgeon continued, “I was going to take your leg. It was barely hanging onto your thigh. Your knee was obliterated. No cartilage remained and only a ligament or two. Your shin was in pieces. And then it wasn’t. And here we are, a week later, and, if Mycroft’s calculations are correct, your leg should be out of plaster and into a walking cast today. So, let’s get you up on that table so we can x-ray that leg and, more likely than not, cut the plaster off. Do you understand why I had to sign an agreement now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied in angry frustration, complete with an eye roll, “I do. No need to be so tetchy.”


	2. Sherlock

The organic compounds swirled under the magnifying lens of the microscope, a rather common combination of an almost red wine color mixed with some pinks, scarlets and the inevitable clear. It was the shimmering clear that he was concerned with at the moment, the rest of the blood sample looked rather ordinary. He should know. He had regularly viewed his blood under a microscope since he was seven.

The shimmer was a new anomaly. Hopefully one that would explain all of the strange things that had been happening to him. It had started in the exam room with the awful, bright fluorescents that had temporarily blinded him and the fact that his sense of smell had compensated, alerting him to the surgeon’s presence. The x-ray had revealed a nearly reformed shin bone and a knee that was in perfect condition. While he was given a walking cast, the surgeon was confident that he would be as good as new in about three days. And he was.

Since that exam, his nose had become sharper, picking up the smell of Mycroft (old paper, high-end tobacco, and sugar) and Molly (formaldehyde and Chanel No.5) even if they were at the far end of the hallway. His hearing was incredible, able to hear conversations through closed reinforced doors from across the room as well as through solid concrete walls. He had been moved to a small flat on the grounds with a tiny bathroom and a small window, the sounds of the distant moor floating to him with the conversations held in the courtyards of the compound. His eyes, as sharp and observant as ever, had adjusted to see in the dark in a strange combination of grey scale and heat index. He had been observing his body, the scars remained but looked less brutal than they had. There was no trace of his attack on his healed leg except for the glaringly pink crescent shape - the Bite. A few days ago, about three and a half weeks into his stay, he had cut his palm ‘accidently’ (as he had told Molly) and watched it heal quickly, not a drop of blood escaping the shallow wound in the five seconds that it was open.

Molly continued to monitor his heart rate (slower than the average human) and temperature (an unwavering 104), the symptoms were constant, even if they were unhealthy. The man felt fine, and so he took note of the changes, and brushed them away, storing them in his mind palace with the rest of his collected data.

Most noticeably, his normal habit of sitting and contemplating for hours on end seemed improbable and rather uncomfortable. After an hour, whether he was deep within his mind palace or not, he _had_ to move. The urge was undeniable, so he had taken to walking about the complex, or, if the desire took him, as it tended to in the afternoons, run. Mycroft was the one that had brought the treadmill, undoubtedly one of his own judging from the high quality and lack of wear from usage, and had begun to take notes as he ran, monitoring his heart rate, pace, speed, and level of exertion. Though he would never admit it, Sherlock enjoyed his runs. The treadmill guided his feet so he could continued scanning his collected data without fear of running into traffic or off a cliff. They calmed him without tiring him or really causing him any real exertion.

Recently, within the last day or so, his body had demanded food. Nutrients was something that he had given up on a while ago, the weight of it slowing everything down: his body, his mind. When he was on a case, he was too busy to eat and felt no need for it. Now, he woke starving. Nothing could sway his mind from food, typically protein-based, until he had eaten. The meals, and there were multiple meals throughout the day, varied in size and frequency, though most were more than he’d normally eat and less than what John would have eaten, were they at Baker Street.

Grimacing at the thought of John Watson, he refocused the microscope, taking note of the shimmer before comparing it to the next slide. The shimmer was the only essence on that slide, silvery and translucent at the same time. Apparently, it had oozed from all of his healing wounds for the first few days. Mycroft and Molly had collected it, curious, but were unable to identify it as anything other than a strange, clear but shiny semi-liquid that was thick. It oozed rather than flowed and had the same consistency as mucus. It was apparently in his blood stream, thickening it slightly ( _Probable cause for the slower heart rate_ ), and Sherlock was willing to bet the bank that it was what was driving the changes in his body.

His brow furrowed. “Molly,” he called, spinning his swivel stool away from the bench. “Did you take any samples of my saliva?” He paused, rethinking. “Or urine? Semen?”

The petite red-head looked up from her own microscope where she was examining a drop of his perspiration, collected during his run earlier that afternoon. At first, she looked rather mortified and then reconsidered. Schooling her features ( _How very Mycroft of her_ ), she shook her head. “No, but that could be a good idea. The sweat is proving to be nothing special.”

“Good to know.” His stomach growled. “Hungry,” he muttered. The word instantly caused a chain reaction. Molly, phone in hand, dashed from the room, obviously contacting Mycroft. Less than two minutes later, his brother entered the lab, carrying a brown paper bag of takeaway. He sniffed. _Angelo’s, all the way from London. Linguini, meat sauce with added meat balls. Garlic bread. Chocolate cake and cannolis_. “May I inquire as to the occasion?”

Setting the bag down, the smell making the young man’s mouth water uncontrollably. Mycroft cleared his throat. “Um, well, yes. It has been a month since your little mishap in Serbia. Molly thought we should celebrate.”

He grabbed a test tube and began to collect the drool, his eyes fixed on the bag. The statesman cleared his throat again, obviously displeased with the reaction. “Now, finish what you are doing and go wash your hands for dinner. God knows I don’t want your slobber or any other bodily fluids on it.”

Standing with a huff, his body relieved for a shift in his position and the action of his muscles, the detective strode from the lab, his sibling trailing behind, closing the lights. He had been rather on edge all day. He had spent most of his morning, not in the lab as he would have preferred, but wandering around and around the compound following the trails of small mammals and the food deliveryman and his lorry. It was pointless and unhelpful, but it took him from breakfast ( _Full English, of course_ ) to lunch ( _Winter Stew with a bit of toast_ ). Again, the urge to move had come suddenly over him and he had taken to the treadmill, running faster than he ever felt the need to in his life. The run had lasted for three hours and, according to the machine, he had run nearly forty-five miles. He had blinked, not feeling tired but calmed with a sort of strange contentment, questioning the calculations of the treadmill. Collecting some of his sweat to examine for later, he quickly showered, relishing in the warmth of the water. Feeling finally focused, he had gone to the lab, only to be pulled away in less than an hour by the allure of Angelo’s. _What is wrong with me?_ It was not the first and most certainly not the last time he would ask that question.

By the time he had settled into his small apartment, surprisingly similar to 221B, with Mycroft and Molly, his mouth was practically overflowing with saliva. The strange sensation was brushed to the back of his mind as he heaped the plate in front of him with pasta and sauce, a chunk of garlic bread smothered in meatballs perched precariously on top. Not pausing, the food disappeared rapidly, and he went back for seconds as his brother and friend looked on, confused and horrified. “Sherlock,” Mycroft admonished. “Are you feeling alright?”

The younger man nodded, enthusiastically tucking into another meatball, not noticing the concerned looks that passed between the other man and the small woman. The behavior and appetite were different, yes, but if he was not concerned, they should not be concerned with it either. Once every crumb of food had been consumed, the detective left the table and began to clean the dishes, scrubbing vigorously, his extra energy returning in full force. A small hand touched his arm. He could scent the concern and anxiety that the younger woman had for him. _Strange, smelling emotions._

Brushing off the thought, he turned to face the medical examiner. “Molly,” he stated, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. Her eyes softened somewhat as he scrutinized her face in the dying sunlight before he returned to frantically scrubbing the dishes. “I’m nearly done.” He looked towards his brother, leaning inconspicuously against his umbrella near the door. The man with the receding hairline flicked the lights on with a finger. “Would you like to stay for tea?”

“Of course,” Molly smiled, grabbing the kettle and filling it with water. She lit the stove and set the water to boil. He could hear the man beside the door sigh, leaning the ever-present umbrella leaning against the door jam, and take a seat on the leather sofa. The slight woman bustled about the small kitchen area, grabbing tea bags and milk, the sugar bowl for Mycroft.

A wave of pain swept over him, causing the consulting detective to double over and gasp, dropping the final dish back into the sudsy water. “Sherlock?” Mycroft asked from the couch, sitting up straighter. As soon as the pain came, it had passed. He slowly straightened, rubbing his head and tousling his curls.

“Gah!” he cried out, collapsing to the floor, hitting his head on the tiled floor.


	3. Mycroft

He was off the couch and on the floor of the kitchen faster than he had ever thought possible. His younger brother was twitching, writhing on the cool tile and screaming. His eyes, multicolored gems moments before, were screwed shut as he bellowed. His hands, fingers tense and claw-like, scrambled against his face, his chest, his clothing.

“Mycroft!” Molly gasped, her hands flitting and hovering over the spasming man, lost, desperate. The man surveyed the area around the thrashing body, noticing that there was nothing for his brother to cut himself on, though he would continue to bang into the counter, refrigerator, and island in his haze, and backed away.

Slowly, and lovingly, he wrapped an arm around his crying fiancée’s shoulder and pulled her away from the thin man. He stroked her hair, hugging her as they sat on the couch, watching and waiting for the shrieking and seizing to stop. He shuddered, confused as to what was causing this reaction. His brother had been doing so well, despite the strange appetite and the long run he had gone on earlier. And now this.

As the night deepened, the stars began to shine through the dark and a large, round disc rose in the November sky. The moonlight flooded the apartment, illuminating the floor on which his younger sibling had gone suddenly still after an hour of twitching. His voice was hoarse but still throbbing out of his throat despite his sudden stillness.

The first snap made both the statesman and the medical examiner jump as the watched from the couch. It was the detective’s left arm. The shoulder rotated to an awkward angle, the elbow bent backwards. Sherlock howled. Molly buried her face into his shoulder with a sob. “Mycroft,” she whispered into his neck. “What is happening?”

The snapping and cracking became more rapid. Sherlock’s voice broke and shifted to a strangled sounding moan. He was too exhausted to even vocalize his obvious pain. Fabric tore, ruining the usually pristine, if not a little tight, shirt and slacks. The British government stared, watching bones break and reassemble, blinking in confusion as a new shape overwhelmed his younger sibling, obliterating him from the earth with each startling snap.

The body, no longer human except in the screaming face, was beginning to take on an animalistic quality despite its lack of hair. The front appendages had a lengthened, the knuckles were non-existent, as was the thumb, which had retreated up the arm into a wicked claw. The neck was long, elegant, flowing into a long spine that culminated in a tail, the ruins of his brother’s pants hanging off of it. The legs had shortened with backwards knees and one less toe, the other one disappeared into the ankle.

A snarl returned the ginger-haired man’s attention to the face, which had begun to change. His brother’s ears were shifting up his skull as his eyes pulled backwards, to the sides of his head. His sharp cheekbones lengthened forward along with his jaw and nose. The open and moaning mouth revealed lengthening fangs and a lolling tongue. Dark brown fur began to sprout along the extremities and along the exposed spine. It quickly spread over the rest of the form, growing into a shaggy, curly coat. The final sound rose from a broken gurgle to a fiercely resonant howl before the animal collapsed, panting heavily.

Molly sniffled, dragging her face away from his soaked shoulder, her red eyes falling on the sprawled form of what had been his brother. “Sh-sh-Sherlock?” she whispered, trembling within his arms.

“Yes.” The confirmation was strange, hard to say but true. “Or, at least it was.”

“What is it?” she whispered, her eyes flicking towards his blank face before returning to the shaggy body on the tiled floor.

“I-I am not quite sure, though...it appears to be dog-like.” He tried to keep his voice even, though his mind was racing, piecing together the evidence that had been collected over the last month, the experiments that had been conducted, the observations he had taken himself.

“It’s a wolf,” Molly breathed. “Sherlock had said that he was sure that he had been caught by a wolf in Serbia. I didn’t believe him. Thought it was the morphine talking. It’s been a month. But...it can’t be.” Her beautiful but shocked face turned to look him squarely in the eye. “Please tell me that werewolves don’t exist. Tomorrow’s the full moon, not tonight. It can’t be. Right?”

The political figure did not answer, his mind still processing. “Right, Mycroft?” Molly’s voice had taken on a desperate quality.

A faint whine sounded from the kitchen. His attention, along with that of the woman beside him, flashed over to the dark brown curled beast. It was struggling to it’s feet, wobbling slightly, as if dazed. It shook it’s shaggy head and opened it’s eyes. The swirl of silver and green, flecked with gold and blue grew wide, confused. Those eyes were familiar, humanoid. Sherlock’s eyes.

The animal had not seemed to notice the pair of humans seated behind it, or it was still disoriented. It’s back legs shifted forward a couple of steps while it’s front feet remained stationary and it face planted into the tile with a comical yelp. Mycroft’s brow furrowed. It was unaware that it no long had two legs, that it’s body had changed exponentially.

It rose again, dumbfounded. It’s long, feral head swiveled noting it’s distance from the ground and the sudden height of the countertops and stools. The back legs backed up, bowing the front of the body in a stretch and revealing, for the first time to their owner, the existence of the front legs and paws. A startled bark escaped the terrifying maw and the wolf, there was no denying it now, flipped over onto it’s back, startled. It’s eyes grew wider as it saw the matted curls of it’s underbelly, the swishing tail, four paws and legs.

Scrambling on the slippery tile, it flipped over, yowling in fright and utter bewilderment and began to run about the flat, bouncing off the furniture and appliances in a mad scramble to escape it’s own body. Wood splintered, wall paper tore, the wolf yelped, and, in a final heave, it launched itself through the wooden door of the apartment and into the linoleum hallway beyond. Snapping into action, terrified for both his workers and his brother, who had clearly lost all sense of rational thought, Mycroft jumped into action. Flipping his mobile open, he hit the emergency line for Baskerville. “Shut down the fire exits for corridor E. We have a problem that needs to be contained. No one enters or leaves the wing without my say so, is that understood?”

Alarms blared and red lights flashed intermittently as the heavy, fireproof and bullet proof doors at either end of the long hallway let go of their electromagnets and slammed shut. A sharp howl resonated down the corridor and Molly, ever the nurturer, rushed to the splintered door, just in time to see a dark brown mass sprint by in the opposite direction.

She turned back to her fiancé. “He’s contained within E. What do we do now? Do you think he’ll hurt us? Will he harm himself? He’s terrified, Mycroft. What can we do?”

“I don’t know, Molly. I simply don’t know.” He flipped open his mobile again and texted a simple command into it:

CORRIDOR E. BRING TRANQUILIZER - MH

The wolf flew by again yowling and tripping. It ran directly into a concrete wall and flipped over, landing on it’s side with a thud before scrambling up and growling. It’s multi-colored eyes scanned it’s surroundings and lighted on the slim figure of Molly still standing in the splintered doorway. Growling darkly, the beast launched itself through the air at the small woman. She took a short, hesitant step back from the destroyed door in fright.

Without pausing for a second, Mycroft grabbed his umbrella and swung. The black contraption connected solidly with the creature’s head, knocking it into the door jam, and subsequently, unconscious. “Molly,” he urged. “Step away from that thing. Back-up is coming. We’re going to get it contained.”

“Muh-muh-muh...” The slender woman was at a loss for words and appeared unable to move, her feet fixed to the floor. Gently, the older man wrapped a protective arm around her, the other held firmly onto the umbrella.

The alarm cut and a heavy object was forced open down the hallway. The sound of heavy boots ran the length of the linoleum with practiced strides. Four men and one woman, all dressed in black combat fatigues and carrying tranquilizer guns stopped outside of the smashed door. “Sir.” They stood at attention. “We came as fast as we could.”

“Yes, yes. You were very efficient. Now shoot it and move it to Level 3. It needs to be contained. It tried to attack Dr. Hooper.”

The dart was administered quickly, causing Molly to shake as the wolf wheezed in response. “Mycroft,” she whispered. “Why do I feel like this is wrong?”

“Shhh, my Darling,” he replied, stroking her hair. “It’s only because of who it was. My brother is gone. Replaced by that blood-thirsty beast.” He kissed the top of her head, feeling her tears flow down onto his lapel as the dark brown mass was carried away, and shuddered. He spun the woman to face him, wiping her face tenderly with his thumb. “Come, my Love. We’ll continue our research. There may be a way to save him, if not others afflicted by that disease. Whatever it may be.”

Molly nodded, sniffling. Mycroft offered her a lace-embroidered handkerchief which she graciously accepted and hugged her close as she began to blot her face with the small square of cloth. _What am I going to tell Mummy and Father?_


	4. Molly

Over an hour later, ensconced in a shatter-proof plexiglass cage under the bright, unforgiving florescent lights of laboratory Level 3, the red-headed woman watched the dark brown wolf return to wakefulness. It slowly blinked, struggling to stand before the drugs brought it back to it’s knees again. The process of shaking off the anesthetic took a quarter of an hour, the same movements repeated over and over again as she and Mycroft observed. Her fiancé was scribbling furiously on a clipboard, noting everything. Meanwhile, her heart was shattering. That mass of confused and petrified fur was what was left of the cunning, prideful, impossible, intelligent man that she had pined after for so long, and, though those feelings had passed, she was still dying inside watching the wolf struggle while the man was lost.

Once it stood, swaying unsteadily on it’s four feet of rather substantial size, it raised it’s head and looked directly at the two figures on the other side of the glass. Growling menacingly, it’s hackles raised, the wolf launched itself at the glass, colliding with it with a solid THUD, jaws snapping on nothingness. Backing up, the wolf repeated the motion before it’s head swiveled and it launched itself against another side panel.

Molly heard Mycroft sigh, his hope of Sherlock still being there long gone. She did not want to give up so easily, but, as the wolf returned to growling and clawing at the glass directly in front of her, spittle flying from it’s jaws and long white canines as they snapped at the air, she was beginning to doubt too. An idea slid into to her mind and niggled at her thoughts. Slowly, she rose and ran to the door of the lab, her feet slapping against the smooth linoleum.

“Molly! Where are you going?” the British Government called after her. “I’m so sorry if this upset you. I just assumed that you’d want to help.”

“I _am_ helping!” she called back, flipping the light switch so that the room fell into darkness with a resounding click. Immediately, she saw her fiancé’s phone screen pop to life and she was able to make her way back to him, hands outstretched to avoid running into a laboratory table.

“Is there a reason the lights are turned off, Molly?” he asked, his voice low, seductive, despite the situation. A warm hand stroked her lab coat covered arm lovingly.

“Shhh. Listen,” she replied, placing a finger to her lips while tilting her head toward the dark plexiglass cage.

The deep, throaty, threatening growl, snapping jaws, desperate thumping against the glass prison walls had been replaced by a high pitched, morose whining. As her eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight from the high windows, Molly saw a totally different creature. It was curled around itself in the far corner, as if trying to make itself smaller than it was. It was certainly a difficult task as the wolf was at least as tall as an Irish Wolf Hound and certainly had more muscle despite it’s lean appearance. It’s eyes, _Sherlock’s eyes_ , looked utterly bereft, ashamed, afraid but definitely not threatening.

“Look Mycroft,” she whispered, reaching out and placing a hand on the glass. The wolf looked at the hand, at her face, and closed it’s eyes, curling in on itself further. “I think he’s frightened.”

She turned to the other person in the room. “Just think if this happened to you? If you were painfully manipulated into another body shape with different instincts and knowledge, in a world that’s familiar but different. Everything must seem so strange, and every noise must be so incredibly loud.” She gasped as a realization sprinted into her mind. “Oh, Mycroft, those alarms must have been deafening! The lights, going on and off rapidly, must have been blinding. He was in pain and I was standing between him and a way out of that noise! And the lights in here, they would have caused reflections on the glass. He’s reverted to the knowledge of a wild animal who has never seen a reflection before. He wasn’t trying to get us or escape, he was trying to protect himself, or us, from the wolf in the reflection. Because he thought it was real.” She gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth. “Oh God, Mycroft! I think he’s becoming aware. I think he’s beginning to assert himself over the animal instincts that came with this body. Just look at him. He looks so depressed and frightened and overwhelmed. No wolf would possess all of those emotions, or at least not all at once.” Her eyes lit up. “Sherlock’s still here!”

Swiftly, she ran around the rather large plexiglass box and began to unlock the door. “MOLLY!” Mycroft shouted. “What are you doing!? Don’t let it out! It’s smart - It’s tricking you!”

“I’m not letting _him_ out,” the woman corrected, releasing the latch. “I’m going in.” Quickly, before the man could stop her, she passed through the small door and swiftly shut it behind her, hearing the lock click back into place.

The sound of Mycroft’s shout was dulled by the thick walls, making it relatively easy for her to tune it out. _For Sherlock, it must be clear as a bell_. Turning to face the wolf in question, the woman remained crouched, her hands extended in front of her, and tried to appear as non-threatening as possible.

At the sound of the lock being released, the dark, shaggy head had lifted, but the wolf had not moved. Now it was watching her, eyes wide, calculating, and nostrils flared. “Shhh, Sherlock,” Molly crooned. “I’m just here to talk. To understand. To prove to your brother that he can be an utter arse despite his _supposed_ high IQ.”

She took a small crawled step closer. Instantly, the wolf was up, his tail swishing slowly between his hind legs before it stilled and curled under his abdomen. She heard Mycroft shout in alarm from behind her, still fiddling with the lock in unsteady, nervous hands. She stopped, hands held out before her, palms open, showing that she meant no harm. The wolf looked at her, his head cocked slightly to the side. “Yes, Sherlock. That’s your name. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Consulting Detective. The only one in the world. You were born on January 6, 1976. You live at 221B Baker Street in London. We met at St. Bart’s Hospital. You came into the morgue nearly ten years ago for a whole bunch of thumbs. I still have no idea what you needed them for, but I gave them to you anyway. Do you remember?”

Slowly, the dark brown beast backed away until his butt was pressed into the far corner, his tail between his long back legs. He laid his long, elegant ears back, pressing them tightly against his skull and growled. This growl was different than the one he had used before when faced with his unfamiliar reflection. There was no threat behind it. Instead, it was filled with caution. The wolf was wary of the woman, of what he could _do_ to her, and was letting her know.

Molly leaned back on her heels to sit crossed legged but did not move a centimeter closer to Sherlock. She continued to speak in a low, soothing voice. “I know that this must be extremely confusing and frightening. None of us, being rather rational thinkers - some of us more than others, thought that your symptoms would have led to this. It must be so scary, experiencing every bone in your body breaking, your brilliant mind escaping and have it replaced by instincts. And then to be assaulted by loud noises and bright flashing lights and sharp strange smells and people with umbrellas and tranquilizer darts. You were human just four hours ago, and, between you and I, Sherlock,” her voice got softer, as if she were sharing a secret. “ _I think you still are_. Maybe not in body, but definitely in mind - now that you’ve begun to sort things through. I _know_ you have. You wouldn’t just give up and leave us. That’s not the Sherlock I know.”

She sighed, watching the wolf’s stance become less rigid and his ears flicked forward briefly. Seeing that her tactic might be working, she continued in her low, tranquil voice, talking about anything she could think of, trying her best to comfort the new wolf.

“You know, Sherlock. You are a handsome fellow. I’ve always thought that, from that first meeting over your thumbs to now. In this moment, you’re so innocent, so wild, so intelligent. You’ll make all the ladies jealous. I mean, God, Sherlock, that hair - fur now, I guess - it looks so soft and silky. So pet-able and thick and lush. Those dark brown curls! They really bring out your eyes. No matter the body, those are eyes that you could get lost in. They are the newly calmed ocean before a storm, the windows to the cosmos...”

As she chatted away, stoking his ego, the wolf’s ears pricked up and stayed that way, and the growl stopped. It was replaced by a low and incessant whine ( _Well, Sherlock did enjoy hearing himself talk_ ) and he had slowly taken a step away from the far corner. His tail remained between his hind legs, but his eyes, so human and emotional, showed something amid the fear. Understanding, and maybe a little gratitude. Molly was certain of it. The wolf understood every word that passed from her lips.

“Of course, you shouldn’t tell Mycroft all of this. We both know how jealous he gets.” She let herself chuckle a bit before continuing, her eyes taking in the lithe movements of the wolf but never remaining on him for long. “It’s rather funny how we ended up together. Would you like to hear?”

She was looking at Sherlock now and swore she saw him give her a small head nod. The whining stopped, replaced by silence. The woman smiled.

“Oh God, Sherlock. There is something about you Holmes boys that none of the other men have. Handsome, with those endless eyes and those cheekbones. Both of you are so smart and so observant and yet you don’t see what lies in front of you. I pined after you for years, Sherlock. So stoic and handsome and intelligent. What more could a girl want? But I knew that you wouldn’t have me, especially not after you left. I - I tried dating a few times but they all ended up being poor imitations of you, curly haired, blue eyed, minus the brain, and they were just awful losers, the lot of them. Then Mycroft’s people plucked me off the street one day - oh what was it, two and a half months after...Well, he informed me that you were in India and that you missed me.”

She paused smiling. “He also let me know that you wanted me to be happy. Told me I deserved it.” She smiled at the memory. “Thank you for that. If I’d only known that that message would have been delivered by that happiness. Well, it was quite the first impression, and very far from love at first sight. I asked him to keep me informed, and he did. About four months later, after biweekly meetings in shady buildings all over London, he met me at Speedy’s. It was then that I noticed his eyes. Blue, like yours when you’re feeling sad or lost. So blue. And his hair, though shorter than yours, had that wavy curl. And he was so smart. A man I could have a conversation with and feel utterly stupid and unschooled...” The wolf whined, as if reassuring the woman that she was not unintelligent, though she couldn’t be sure. He was a cryptic man, after all.

Still not looking at the wolf in his swirling, silver and gold eyes, Molly smiled and finished her story. “But he never tore me down. Never made me feel like all those years at University were for nothing.” She turned and smiled full on at the dark brown wolf who was standing about three feet away from her. Slowly, she raised a hand, lovingly offering it for him to smell. “So when he asked me out in that tiny, little delicatessen, how could I say no? He had made me realize that, yes, I loved you, but I loved him more. In a different way. You told me that I was important, and he made it so. He still does, every day.”

Warm breath played across her open palm. Holding her breath in anticipation, she held completely still. The wolf snuffled, it’s cool, wet and leathery nose playing along her wrist and fingers. Tentatively, a pink tongue lapped at her palm, tasting her very essence. Sherlock sneezed, snot flying onto her hand. Still, she did not move, watching him inch closer until he stood before her, looming above her seated form.

His human, kaleidoscope eyes looked down at her almost tenderly, still frightened, but much less so. Now they seemed to be filled with a longing and an embarrassment that she could not quite place. Lowering his massive, wedge-shaped head, he placed his cheek against her snotty palm. “Do you want me to pet you? Are you giving me permission?” the red-head breathed, tentatively flexing her fingers. The head leaned into her touch and gave a small nod.

Molly smiled. Sherlock was most certainly still there, hidden beneath a different exterior and few different instincts. No common wolf would give a response to her questions, much less tolerated her presence in his ‘home’ for so long. Slowly, she scratched behind a large, triangular ear. The head, followed by the lean, muscular body, pressed into the sensation as the beast sighed. He lowered his body to the ground gingerly, most likely beginning to feel sore from his repeated fights against solid walls and breakable furniture, and placed his head on his tea plate sized paws in her lap, releasing another sigh.

“Yes, Sherlock, You just relax. It’s been a rather eventful day and you must be exhausted. You can sleep. I will protect you, I promise.” Slowly, those watchful eyes closed, and his breathing deepened, and he fell into a deep sleep.

“The brain is what counts, everything else is transport,” she murmured, recalling something that the detective had once said, and finding absolute truth in that statement.


	5. Sherlock

He woke feeling like he had been run over by a truck. Or that he had actually hit the pavement after jumping off St. Bart’s. Every inch of his body protested as he tried to raise his head. It felt incredibly large, cumbersome and something was resting on it. Fingers had wound themselves into his curls on the top of his head. Now that he was thinking about it, his strangely heavy head was resting on something rather thin and uncomfortable. It twitched.

“Sherlock?” The voice was above him, soft and feminine. Comforting. _Molly Hooper. Pack._ He groaned, thought it sounded more like a whine, shifting his head on the uneven surface it rested on, his nose colliding with a warm, solid surface coated in something fuzzy. _Yarn_. It made him sneeze, the yarn tickling his strangely sensitive nose. He raised a hand to remove the obstacle and pushed. “Sherlock! Ooof!” Molly responded, the surface falling away, leaving another, oddly soft, textured something covering his nose. It smelled like chemicals and take away with a hint of the Serbian woods. “You didn’t have to push me over. You’re surprisingly strong, Sherlock.”

The fingers stroked his head, allowing a strange, calming effect to overwhelm him. _Happy. Pack._ Suddenly, the last twelve hours came flooding back. His body responded before he had even completed the thought, scrambling up and away from the woman who was laying on the floor in a heap. Her face looked confused but her scent was distinctly loving, comforting, worried. In his swift retreat from the woman, he tripped, still unused to having extra legs and a very different center of gravity.

His tail, or rather the wolf’s tail, waved gently behind him at the sight of the red-haired woman. _Good morning, Molly. Thank you - for last night_ , he said genially, bowing his oddly shaped head slightly, still getting used to it’s peculiar weight and the odd black line in the center of his vision that was his snout. His statement came out as a faint whine. He sighed, completely frustrated with his lack of speech, lack of really any communicative ability beyond nodding his canine head.

A deep flick sent an abundance of light streaming into the clear-walled enclosure. He yelped as the brightness flooded his black and white, heat spectrum sight, obscuring everything around him for a split second. Rapidly, he blinked and shook his large head, trying to eliminate the spots in his vision and regain his focus.

Once the spots disappeared, the other wolf returned, staring at him intently with multi-colored eyes under a shaggy, brown brow. Growling, the other wolf responding in kind, the hair on his back and hackles standing straight up, he threw himself at the other beast, protecting Molly. _Pack. Must protect the pack_. The wolf that had slipped into his mind was overwhelming his rational thought.

_It not real, you idiot!_

_Must protect my pack._

_Don’t!_ His body slammed into the unyielding obstacle in front of him. He staggered back, shaking himself as he tried to regain some semblance of reason. The other wolf seemed to have taken a slight banging as well, though it remained, warily pacing in front of him. The growling in his chest deepened. _Away from my pack_. He jumped again, snarling at the other wolf, and was met by a hard, smooth surface.

“Sherlock!” The woman sounded upset. “Stop!”

He whipped his head to face her. Her scent was still the same ( _formaldehyde, Chanel No. 5, love, concern, companionship, Pack_ ) but it carried another emotion - fright. Not for her, but for him. He cocked his head, his gaze flicking rapidly between the human woman and the other wolf.

“Sherlock,” she whispered. “Please, stop. You’re going to get hurt.” He snorted, unworried by her concern, as he eyed the other wolf cautiously.

“Come here, please.” He did not, his eyes narrowed. He was not a dog, even as the wolf niggled at the back of his mind, trying to breach his defenses and run to the other occupant of his cell. “Sherlock.” Her voice was sad. “ _Please_.”

Sighing, he took a couple of hesitant steps closer to her. He snapped and swung his head towards the other wolf, threatening, daring it to come anywhere near his Pack. “Just focus on me, please Sherlock. Ignore the reflection. It’s not real - It’s just an image of you that the angle of the lights have caused to play across the plexiglass.”

That gave him pause and he stayed his - _Oh, how I don’t want to admit it_ \- paws. He looked at the wolf, _his reflection_ , holding the beast at bay within his mind palace to prevent it from another attempt at ‘protection.’ Despite his loss of height, he was certainly a rather large beast. He lifted his head, covered in short, dark brown fur that sloped up his wedge-shaped face to two tall, pointed ears. The top of his head and his ruff started to display his signature dark brown curled locks which grew longer down the front of his chest, on his abdomen, on the backs of his legs, and on the underside of his tail. Looking at it as an observer, trying to ignore that fact that it was, indeed, a reflection, he had to agree with Molly’s statement from the previous evening. He certainly was not bad looking, despite his canine appearance.

He swallowed and sighed, allowing his head to droop. _Most likely my new, permanent appearance. What am I to do now? I have completed my task for Mycroft. I cannot solve cases as a beast, easily distracted by things as simple as my own reflection. I cannot return to London, that’s no place for a...wolf. John would not recognize me. John Watson._ He whined at his realization and gave in to his animal instinct, running into Molly’s embrace, head and tail low. _Pack._

Her warm arms wound around his shaggy body and stroked his tangled fur. The sensation was comforting and he leaned into it, giving his body weight to the slighter woman, toppling her over. He lay over her like a throw rug, warming her and licking her exposed face, taking in her scent and taste as well as reveling in their closeness.

“Watch it, you mongrel,” a sharp and rather unpleasant voice cut in, muffled slightly by the glass but crystal clear, nonetheless. “That beautiful woman is my future wife!”

Playfully, the consulting detective licked her face, from chin to hairline, embedding his scent all over her in a mild claim, and growled at the contemptuous and suddenly much larger figure of his older brother. _Pack_ , he growled. _She’s my pack_. He flexed a muscle over one of his remarkably unchanged eyes, quirking it as if it were an eyebrow, issuing a challenge. _Are you worthy?_

A strange sensation overtook him and he quickly got up, searching and sniffing for the perfect location. He needed to mark his territory against this threat in the form of his older brother, an alpha in his own right, and just needed to relieve himself in general. His final ( _human_ ) meal was resting heavily in his digestive tract and he somehow doubted that the toilet would be operational for a dog. How would he even climb onto the seat?

He ran around the outer edge, searching, sniffing, and whining. _No, not an option._ If Mycroft was going to expect him to live in this tank, he would need to add a few things. He stopped by the door to the cage, whining and scratching at the surface, marveling as his tough claws marred the glass. His gaze, hopefully conveying his desperation, flicked back to the woman in his cell.

 _Mol-ly! Let me out! Please!_ It came out as a desperate whine. He scratched at the door again.

“Do you want to get out?” The medical examiner asked, standing and attempting to brush his hair - _fur, I’ll never have hair again_ \- from her clothing. He huffed, frustrated, _Why else would I be pawing at the door?_ She smiled and went to the door beside him, knocking on it. “Mycroft, let us out!”

The British government raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Molly? It didn’t attack you, that’s true, but who’s to say that it won’t try to eat, or, worse, infect, someone else?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a huff. _Why would I do a thing like that, Mycroft? Why would I want to share this fate with anyone?_ The politician took a step towards the door, his hand firmly wrapped around his umbrella handle. “I can let you out, my dear, but I cannot let the beast out too. It must stay.”

Sherlock yowled, throwing himself against the door in desperation. _Mycroft! You blubbering idiot! I will NOT eat anyone! I need to piss!_

“No, Myc! Let him out too. I promise that he is harmless. Right, Sherlock?” Molly shouted, causing the wolf to flinch at the unexpected volume. “Sorry.” A slim hand stroked his head apologetically. “You won’t hurt anyone, right Sherlock?”

Realizing what she was expecting, the wolf nodded his agreement, his eyes flickering rapidly between the man, the woman, and the door. He whined, _Please_.

Unconvinced, the ginger-haired man pulled a key from his pocket and began to unlock the door. “You really need to stop calling that thing Sherlock.” His voice took on a tender quality, “I know this is hard, but he’s gone, Mol. He’s never coming back.”

“Mycroft.” The mortuary planted her feet and stuck her hands akimbo. “I have never asked you for anything in our relationship. I have never given you reason to doubt me. I have never had you doubt my intuition before. Are we going to start now? When I say that this is Sherlock, he’s Sherlock. Okay?”

The tall man sighed. “Fine. I will let the both of you out. But, it will have to wear this.” The tall, regal man pulled a strip of leather and chain from his pocket. The sight of it made the wolf within in furious and he growled low in his throat. _I will not be chained._

This man was his brother and, while Mycroft was rather insufferable, he had never been cruel to him, had never forced him to be less than human, despite his flaws. _But I am not human. Not anymore_.

Defeat flooded him as the wolf that shared his mind fought against him, yowling that he was submitting to weakness, to a weak man. The wolf felt that Humans were below them and yet, his human side would give in without a fight. _If it means getting out of this box, yes. It’d be so boring without Molly. And, not to mention, the stench that would soon build up._

He nodded, looking the other man in the eye. Molly continued to stroke his head, unaware of the internal battle that waged. She was verbally assaulting her fiancé, berating him for suggesting such a thing. “He’s Sherlock! He’s your brother!”

“I don’t have a brother,” the British government stated, not a hint of emotion on his face or in his voice. “My brother died yesterday. Consumed by that _thing_ beside you.”

Sherlock yowled as his heart split in two. _I am nothing. I am...inhuman. I am a beast_. He slumped to the floor, grabbing a foreleg in his jaws and biting, the pain bringing him some release from the emotional pain but not helping in the slightest. Molly’s arms wrapped around his thick, furry neck, squeezing tightly, causing him to drop his now bleeding foreleg. It healed almost instantly.

“He didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t mean it. It’s just taking a bit of getting used to,” she murmured, stroking him, calming him. He swung his head to look at the woman, rolling his eyes and cocking his head as he growled his complaint. _You think this is hard for you?_

“I know, I know,” she smiled sadly. “No one has been effected more than you.” He pushed her gently with his heavy head. “We’ll get through this, me and you. Together.”

The click of the lock broke the pair apart. “Molly,” the man said, gesturing with his free hand. “Come away from that thing, now.” 

The woman didn’t move. “He’s not a _thing_ , Mycroft. He’s Sherlock and I’m sure he’d appreciate being called by his name. Just as I’m sure he’d appreciate getting out of this plexiglass prison to, I don’t know, Myc, use the bathroom or eat something. He promised not to hurt anyone. Just treat him like the person he is-”

Mycroft pulled her forcefully out of the cage. She squealed and the wolf woofed in protest. A hand closed over his ruff and he was pulled into a firm headlock. He could have easily wriggled free but, seeing his imminent escape, he allowed his older brother to think he had the upper hand. The leather and metal of the collar was wrapped around his muscular neck, but before it was tightened fully, he began his escape. He was not a _trained_ wolf at all, nor was he going to allow his brother to be the alpha of his pack. _He_ was Alpha, that much was certain.

Flinging his entire body weight, which he was learning was rather substantial, against the other man, he broke free and made a mad dash across the slippery linoleum, his claws and large padded feet propelled him towards the door at a remarkable speed. His brother shouted and began to chase him, his designer leather-shod feet thundering on the linoleum, as Molly shouted for him to run as quickly as he could manage. He located a wheelchair accessible door button beside the double door of the lab, jumped against it to open the doors and flew through them.

His nose was pressed firmly to the floor, searching for fresh air, for dirt and grass. Anything but the overwhelming surgical cleanliness and bleach of the bland white corridors. Men and women in impeccable white lab coats jumped out of his way, dropping clipboards and trays of test tubes onto the already hazardously slippery floor. They yelled and screamed, terrified at the escaped experiment that ran through their halls. All the while leading him to the outdoors.

His blood was singing in his veins, feeling the pull of the fresh air, the instinct to feel the wind through his fur, the dirt below his paws and under his nails, to run the miles with his incredibly strong limbs, testing his endurance. _Oh, the experiments I could run on this body! I could change the human race! I..._ He shook his head as he passed through another door, drawing ever closer to the outside. _I would make no difference to anyone except myself._ He huffed, skidding into a wall, which he used to propel himself forward and, finally, out into the sunlight.

His eyes were temporarily blinded by the shift in the light but his nose led him onward. Swiftly, his feet pounding the packed dirt of the compound and his nose took in the abundance of new fragrances. The only thing he cared about, however, was the sharp, pungent aroma of oak. It was there that the wolf of Baskerville marked his territory.


	6. Molly

The wolf seemed so happy outside. Yes, she realized that it was Sherlock, but, he seemed so, well, puppy-like as he chased even the smallest scents about the rather barren yard. She chuckled as the serious and calculating consulting detective, who brought everyone he came across to their knees, explored the world in his new body. Currently, he was leaping and snapping at a butterfly with such delight that she would have given anything to join him. The collar, so roughly latched around his neck, bounced as he leapt and frolicked, the stress of subjugation forgotten for the moment.

Mycroft had disappeared into the building, not amused in the slightest by his little brother’s antics. He had had his mobile pressed to his ear and was talking feverishly into the devise in a hushed but urgent tone. The mortuary had wanted to follow the man she loved, but she found herself torn between the human and the wolf. For one, Mycroft was being rather ridiculous. His rigid stance behind the realistic was upsetting. Sherlock’s obvious humanity, despite the four legs and fur, as well as his seeming connection to her, kept her on his side. She hated fighting with Mycroft, with the British government himself, but she knew that she was right. And her maternal instinct was in hyperdrive.

The wolf yipped at her, skidding to a stop in front of her before running as fast as his four legs could carry him in the other direction, his tail flying like a proud flag behind him, his pink tongue lolling joyfully out of his mouth. She had forgotten, probably due to her lack of sleep in a proper bed the previous evening, how much exercise he needed to expend as of late. At least it now made sense.

Her stomach rumbled. “Sherlock!” she called at the dark brown streak. “Are you hungry?”

Instantly, the wolf pivoted and sprinted back towards the little red-headed woman at full tilt. He skidded to a halt, his nails tearing into the compacted earth and gave her a huge wolfy grin, his tongue still hanging out of his gaping jaws, his sides panting from the exertion. He sat abruptly, cocking his head and closing his mouth, and slowly peeled back his upper lip to reveal just his lower canines, long and sharp. He let out a whine, his tail thumping solidly against the soil and gravel. A paw, large as a saucer batted gently at her arm and abdomen. It was all very dog-like: Sherlock was begging.

“I take it that you are feeling a bit peckish.” Molly smiled. “Well, come along. I’ll find you something to eat.”

Together, the petite woman and the large wolf walked through the hallways of Baskerville, her clicking heels masking the scratch of his claws on the linoleum. The sight of the enormous wolf certainly turned heads and merited a few gasps of surprise, but no screaming. Apparently, Mycroft had warned them of his ‘freedom’ - the collar was still in place, hanging heavily around his thick neck, the tags jingling merrily. Molly spotted a fast-releasing, injectable sedative in nearly everyone’s pockets, EpiPens filled with elephant tranquilizer. They were prepared, over prepared in her professional opinion, but it was comforting for them, so she said nothing.

When the pair arrived at Level C, the medical examiner swiftly unlocked the door to the apartment she shared with Mycroft and went inside. Her keys jingled merrily in the bowl, announcing her return to the space. It was roomy, but comfortable. The furniture was a mixture of Mycroft’s stuffy, pristine antiques and her rather shabby second hand sofa and end tables. The mixture of colors and textures reminded her of her ramshackle flat in London around the corner from St. Bart’s and it toned down her fiancé’s overbearing drive for perfection.

Humming to herself, she began to pull a series of containers from the fridge, noting the dates that they had first been consumed or purchased. Pulling a plastic grocery bag from the depths of the ice chest, she smiled. Mycroft may think that he’s an uncaring being, but Sherlock was his weakness and he would continue to look out for the younger man, regardless of his current state of denial. She pulled the contents from the bag, careful not to spill anything. It was then she realized that she was quite alone.

Sherlock sat outside the door of the apartment, watching her intently, his nostrils flared and his eyes sadly wide and hungry. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” she asked quietly, scrubbing her hands in the sink before returning to the doorway. “If your still worried about Myc, he’s not here. He’s being an utter arse at the moment. You’re welcome here, any time. And since when did you start waiting to be invited in to places? This is rather uncharacteristic of you.”

Nodding his happiness at his brother’s absence, Sherlock released a small woof, his new chuckle and stood, shaking out his coat, loose fur flying everywhere. The wolf trotted past, his nose flaring and inhaling every scent. He sneezed frequently around anything that the British government typically used and ran his head over anything that Molly had recently touched, nuzzling it. Eventually, his explorations lead him back to her. She was microwaving a bowl of soup for herself and was currently contemplating what to do with Mycroft’s contribution to his brother’s health.

“So, Sherlock...um...this is a strange question, but do you want some meat?” The wolf nodded sharply and he sat by her feet, tail thumping while his human eyes watched her like a hawk.

“Ok, so is steak alright? It’s the only thing that I have that’s not frozen.” Again, a nod followed.

“Raw?” The wolf became contemplative, his head cocked slightly to the left. His eyes closed and she watched them shift behind his lids. He had retreated, unexpectedly, to his mind palace. Finally, after a minute or two, his eyes opened and he gave a resigned nod.

“That’s fine,” she said in as comforting a tone as she could manage. It was strange seeing Sherlock eat, much less think about what his current diet would be. She pulled a New York strip steak from the bag and set it on the cutting board. The wolf whined, drawing her attention from her cutting to him. He was giving her his best beg again, a bit of drool sliding from the corner of his maw. “I’m not going to give you an intact piece of steak. It’ll end up all over the place. Plus, with the way you’ve been eating, you could choke yourself.”

She could hear the eye roll and most certainly the sharp huff that followed her statement. “Is one going to be enough?”

A distinct shake of his head, which travelled down his body, loosening some of his fur onto the ground, told her that she’d be needing another piece of meat. She pulled it from the bag and began to cut, ignoring the whining that was becoming rather annoying. Yup, there was no way that the wolf was not Sherlock.

Sweeping the chunks of beef into a large mixing bowl, she walked to the dining area, thankfully still tiled, and stopped. Sherlock rubbed against her, his hot breath playing on the back of her hand. Remorsefully, the small woman turned to the creature that had once been a man and told him, “Sit.”

With a slight growl at the command, he sat, his eyes never leaving the bowl. Slowly, she set the bowl down on the floor and backed away, the wolf’s gaze flickering between her and the food on the tiled floor. She moved through the kitchen, pouring her soup into a mug and filling a second mixing bowl with water. She set the second mixing bowl next to the first and sat at the table, taking a sip from her mug.

Sherlock continued to look at her with a rather pissed expression on his canine face. Sighing and feeling incredibly guilty for treating him like a dog, she got off her chair and sat across from him on the floor. “Happy?” she asked.

In response, the wolf dug in, snapping up chunks of beef rapidly pausing only for air and to send the mortuary a rather smug but grateful look, his tail wagging slowly.

_____________________________________

The full moon, bright and brilliant among the petty change of the night sky, streamed into the Hooper-Holmes apartment. Sherlock was fascinated by it, his paws planted firmly on the window ledge, just staring at the disc as if it was the most beautiful thing in all existence. As the moon rose over the buildings of Baskerville and came into full view, he tipped his majestic, shaggy head back and released a melodic howl. It was so loud and so full of yearning that Molly knew that everyone else in Level C, if not the building of apartments, had heard the call.

“Oh, for God’s sake, SHUT UP!” Mycroft bellowed about a half hour into the concert of howls. “This is ridiculous.” He snapped his paper in frustration. “Molly, it seems to respond to you, can you get it to shut it’s gaping trap?!”

Molly, actually enjoying the strange, ethereal sounds escaping Sherlock, shrunk in her chair. “Why don’t you ask nicely? Or, better yet, you could ask him why he’s bawling so. There must be something going on, Mycroft. He’ll let you know.”

The statesman cocked a ginger eyebrow. “Oh, really?” He cleared his throat and turned to face the furry backside of the wolf, ready to prove his fiancée wrong. “Um...Wolf. What do you want? Tell me and I will do my best to get it for you.” He rolled his eyes at Molly, not convinced that talking to the overgrown feral dog would do anything.

The howling died and a single paw left the sill to paw at the glass, smudging it. “I’m sorry, you idiotic beast. The moon must stay where it is: in space.” The British government chuckled. “See, Molly Dearest, it’s rather stupid. Idiotic, really. Why I ever let it out of it’s cage, I don’t know.”

As the insults rained, the dark brown wolf left the window and curled into a ball underneath the sill, his wedge-shaped head hidden behind his curled tail and back legs, whining softly. While Sherlock was not one to reveal his emotions, he was in a vulnerable place and his new natural instincts played easily across his unschooled features and voice. The lack of support from his older sibling was devastating, at least as far as the mortuary could tell.

“Mycroft,” Molly felt herself getting angry at the man she loved, a rare occasion now a days. “Apologize to Sherlock. You’re hurt his feelings.” She gestured to the crumpled heap of fur on the floor that was whining piteously.

“Oh, have I?” he continued to chuckle. “Molly, for the last time: That thing is not Sherlock. Not any more.”

The wolf, faster than Molly had thought possible was up and between her and the other human in no time. He had forcefully torn the paper from his brother’s grasp and was staring him down, front paws, the size of tea saucers, standing on the man’s shins, giving him a distinct height advantage. There must have been something in the expression of the wolf because Mycroft was looking back, a rather odd expression on his face. Contrasting greatly with the dark glower the wolf was projecting, her fiancé’s face looked young, innocent, as if he was experiencing something for the first time.

“Sherlock?” he whispered, a hand reaching up to stroke the cheek of the dark brown wolf before him.

“Let him smell you first. He’s not a dog, Mycroft. He could kill you if he wanted to,” Molly warned, relieved that the statesman had finally realized that his little brother was still very much present. The older man froze, his hand extended next to the fur-covered jowl of his younger brother.

Sherlock sniffed delicately, before latching onto the fabric of the cuff of the suit. “Hey!” Mycroft yelled, following the wolf as he pulled away from the couch and headed for the door. “This is a _very_ expensive suit! You’re acting like a child!” That final statement earned a sharp yank on the sleeve from the wolf, showing his displeasure.

“I think he want’s to go outside,” Molly said, and was rewarded with a soft bark and a nod for her deduction.

“But it’s dark.” Mycroft hesitated at the door, checking the soggy fabric that had just vacated his brother’s mouth.

“That’s the point, Myc,” Molly chuckled, rising and going over to the pair. She pulled her coat from the hook by the door and grabbed her keys. “I can take him if you don’t want to take any more observations. After all, this is the first case of it’s kind that we know of, and I’m sure that Sherlock would appreciate the company.”

She unlatched the door and headed out, the wolf right beside her, trotting circles around her feet in happiness. She ran her fingers over his triangular head and into his ruff, enjoying the warm, silky texture. She smiled when she heard footsteps running to catch up to them. Mycroft’s curiosity had won out.


	7. Sherlock

The world’s only consulting detective was rather dejected when he woke up early the following afternoon on a pallet of blankets on the floor in his brother’s living room, large paws and four legs still very much in tact. He sighed heavily. While this...predicament...had be rather fascinating for the first twenty-four hours, he was very much ready to be rid of this body. He missed being able to walk around on two legs, playing his violin, sitting at the kitchen table, using the loo, sleeping in a bed. _What if this is permanent?_

It wasn’t the first time he asked that question. Every time he asked, his body responded in two very different ways. He found himself becoming rather depressed, his head falling to rest on his forepaws. The wolf, on the other hand, was overjoyed by the prospect, setting his tail wagging vigorously. The two of them had reached an understanding the previous evening, something that Sherlock, so used to being in control, still found difficult. He would maintain control if humans or domesticated animals were near, using his intellect, mixed with the wolf’s own skill set in his daily life. When he was outside, away from anyone that could be harmed by him ( _Don’t want to go around biting people. After all, it was definitely that bite that had done this_ ), he would give the wolf free rein and sit back to observe.

The previous evening had been one of those instances. As the night deepened and the moon, with her mysteriously compelling pull, rose higher into the black sky, the wolf became stronger, fighting him for control, needed to revel in the glory of the moon. Hesitantly, and very aware of Molly and Mycroft’s close proximity, he had allowed the wolf some freedom, opening the lid of the box he had shoved it into, resulting in the howling that his brother so loathed.

Once he was outside, however, he had instantly begun to feel better. The wolf’s head was out of the box, sniffing around and calling to it’s mistress, Diana. With a bit of prodding, he was able to escape the compound, Molly and Mycroft on his heels. The woman had made him promise to return, and he did, after conducting a few experiments of his own out on the desolation of the moor.

The feeling of letting go, sitting back and letting the wolf just run, was thrilling. He felt so alive, even if he was just the passenger, something that he hadn’t encountered in a long while. Everything was new, remade with his new senses in remarkable clarity. He had spent hours just running, chasing streams and jumping the large boulders that were scattered through the moor like freckles and laugh lines on the face of Mother Earth. He had howled, praising the silver goddess who hung above him with his antics. As the night had worn on, he had tracked a jack rabbit and given chase, teasing it for nearly half an hour before taking it. It’s warm flesh melted in his jaws, bones and hide proving to be no match for his razor sharp teeth. Feeling guilty that he had not provided for his pack, he had taken down another rabbit, a bit smaller than the last, and trounced back to the compound, the limp body hanging from his mouth.

As he neared humanity and civilization, the detective took over, slightly disgusted by the mutilated ‘present’ in his jaws, but still proud. The wolf had thought that he had done something remarkable and, mutual agreement reached, he could not deny the funny and instinctual creature it’s moment in the lime light. When the front gates came into view, he broke into a run, happy with his return ‘home.’ He was pleased to spot both Mycroft and Molly waiting just behind the tollbooth bar and flagged his pace, sliding, easily, underneath the obstacle. He dropped the long-dead bunny on the gravel and nosed it to the humans, woofing softly. His older brother had been less than pleased, but Molly, in a show of support, had accepted his gift and brought it into the apartment on Level C. She stuck it in the fridge and began to pull old, worn sheets and blankets into the living room, creating a soft, warm nest. He had fallen asleep right as the sun was rising, painting the sky a watercolor of pinks, oranges, and purples.

He probably would have slept through the day, surprisingly exhausted by his late night, but was pulled out of his stupor by the sound of clinking china and the smell of roasting bacon. He stretched, feeling every single one of his new muscles pull against his bones, before releasing it with a sigh. He rubbed his body all over the blankets, claiming the soft, luxurious fabrics as his own, the collar that he had not yet managed to escape, gently catching on some of the fabrics, and then rose to his feet with another sigh. _Bathroom. Food_.

He trotted over to the table and the two familiar, red-headed figures that sat at it, nursing their cups of coffee in their dressing gowns and pajamas. He went first to Molly, the sleepier looking of the two but generally the friendlier one, and licked the hand that rest on her lap.

“G’morning, Shrlock,” she muttered as she blinked at him tiredly. He licked her hand again before running to the door with a little woof. “Wah?”

It took a bit, and a few more trips back and forth between the table and the door, for her to realize what he wanted. “Mycrft. Ledyur brothur ou’, pleeze.”

His older sibling snapped his paper grumpily. “He’s an adult, Molly, he can take care of himself.”

Sherlock whined, returning to the table but, this time, went to Mycroft’s side. He placed both of his paws in the man’s broad lap, attempting to get his attention. The other man didn’t so much as spare him a glance. Instead, he set down his paper and picked up a strip of bacon, hot and juicy with the fat dripping off it.

With a soft growl, the wolf snapped it up and out of the other man’s hands. Using as much restraint as he could muster, he bolted away from the ginger man and to the door, waving the meat triumphantly. “SHERLOCK!” Mycroft shouted, his attention fixed entirely on the wolf as it danced from paw to paw. “What was that for?”

“Ledim’ out so he cn pee, for Christ’s sake,” Molly muttered again, as she smiled over the mug of coffee that she was holding like a lifeline.

With an exasperated huff, the statesman stood and walked to the door. The shaggy dark brown wolf looked up at him, teasingly offering the man his bacon back. Unlocking the door and grabbing his coat, the muttered, “Keep it.” Grinning wolfishly, the meat was gone in a second and the pair headed out the door and outside the building.

A light snow had fallen during the day, the temperature had plummeted. Sherlock sniffed at the white fluff eagerly while his brother snorted his disgust. The wolf, truly still a puppy at heart, had never seen snow before and was fascinated by the white stuff. He snapped at the flakes energetically, leaping into the air and catching the little bits of precipitation in his hot mouth, where they melted instantly. He buried his nose into a small pile, blown against his oak tree, smelling his scent and the bland coolness of the snow, sneezing. He remarked his territory and returned to his brother, who had been watching with a small smile on his face. Apparently, his antics were amusing to more than just the wolf inside. He shot the man a look that he hoped read, “What are _you_ looking at?”

It did not work. Mycroft actually burst out laughing. “You know,” he said, rubbing his arms against the chill. “I think I might like you this way better. At least when you act like a child, it’s with good reason.”

Sherlock growled his older sibling, disagreeing with him and trying to make it known that he did not appreciate this form. It was starting to grow on him, yes, but he did miss his human body and really wanted to return to it. The animal urges of the wolf were strange, very out of character for him. Somehow, whether he was permanently stuck like this or what, he could feel a change in him that would never disappear. The wolf was like John (John...) because he would never be the same after meeting it.

___________________________________

The rest of the day was spent running tests. He was weighed and measured thoroughly. There was not an inch that remained untouched, much to his displeasure. After being prodded one too many times in his privates, he snapped at the offending hand (Mycroft’s), and promptly skittered away to cool his temper. Blood, urine, saliva, and, much to his embarrassment and Mycroft’s discomfort, semen, were taken for comparison with his human products. As a wolf, he did not sweat, instead, he cooled his body through panting, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Sherlock scarfed down the other rabbit, along with about five pounds of steak after spending most of his afternoon chasing a ball like a trained dog. Every time he tried to stop, giving the other man a disgruntled look, Myrcoft would just shrug with a small smile and say, “It’s for science, brother.” And he’d go chase another ball.

_For science, my arse._

_Ooh, ball! Hunt. For Pack. Capture._

_Bloody Mycroft. I’m not a dog._

_I AM WOLF!_

Following a well-deserved dinner, he had cuddled on the couch with Molly and watched crap telly while Mycroft worked in his study doing whatever the British Government did on a Thursday night. While the bright images on the screen were stimulating, as was the canned laughter, he found that he was much more drawn to was the petting he was getting from the woman he was reclining on than whatever she was watching. He had never been one that enjoyed physical contact with others, in fact, he was rather confused by it. But this stroking and scratching through his coat, well, that was delightful.

The red-head had allowed him to sprawl, head on forepaws, on her lap, pushing her into the tiniest corner while the rest of his very long body was draped luxuriously over the couch cushions, his shaggy, curly fur getting on everything. The woman stroked his head for a while, brushing his rather long fur. Eventually, her hand and thin fingers found their way to the back of his ear and scratched the area rapidly. On it’s own accord, his corresponding leg began to shake with sheer happiness. “Someone apparently has a sweet spot,” Molly giggled as he wriggled on her lap, tongue hanging recklessly out of his gaping maw as he whined with unbridled joy and his leg continued to shake, jiggling the collar and tags.

Molly stopped her scratching, much to his disappointment, and began to fiddle with the leather strap around his muscular neck. Tightening it slightly, her nimble fingers, trained with precision and practiced with a scalpel, unbuckled the collar, pulling it from his neck. She rubbed his ruff, as if trying to eliminate the feeling of the heavy leather and tags from his neck, and set the collar on the end table. “Better?”

He nodded, but took one of his massive paws and laid it over the worked piece of leather tenderly. He nuzzled Molly’s side in appreciation. One final lick, he picked up the discarded collar and hopped off the couch, leaving enough fur to knit a jumper, and curled up on the pile of blankets on the floor. He dropped the collar into a fold and lay down, letting exhaustion consume him once again. “Good night, Sherlock,” the woman whispered tenderly, shutting off the telly, and retreating to the bedroom. His only response was a soft sigh.


	8. Mycroft

He looked at the clock on his mahogany desk. _6:49 am, Friday morning_. He sighed and rubbed his exhausted face with his hands. He knew that Molly was waiting for him, though she had fallen asleep hours ago. He was going to be tired for the rest of the day, though, he supposed that if he went to bed now, he could catch a couple of hours of sleep.

He had not meant to get this carried away. His duties to his country were time consuming, to say the least, but that’s what he had underlings for. Anthea was busy in London, dealing with the small issues that continued to crop up on the day-to-day. With the exception of one minor terrorist plot in Belize that was rather easy to hinder, he had dealt with everything the British people needed him to deal with for the time being.

Instead, he was awake at this ungodly hour going over his notes that he had taken in the last month on his brother. He had yet to tell Mummy that Sherlock, her perfect baby boy, had turned into a dog ( _Wolf, whatever_ ) because he had been bitten on his final mission for the British Government. Yes, this predicament was his fault. He needed to remedy it, sooner rather than later.

His notes were rather confusing until about three days ago, when his brother had begun to writhe on the floor and scream and, ultimately, turn into his current furry state. His notes mentioned the rapid healing of his wounds, the broken leg, meant to be amputated, mending in less than two weeks. The strange oozing, shimmering liquid was still a confusing to him. The molecular make-up was certainly something that he had never seen. Sherlock had been on to something when he had changed...maybe if he got a look at his brother’s notes...

A loud yowl rang through the apartment. _Sherlock!_ He sprang from his leather cushioned chair, sending it flying into the grandfather clock behind him with a clang, and sprinted faster than he had thought possible into the living room.

The wolf was seizing, just as his brother had three days previous. “Sherlock,” he whispered, touching the still sleeping ( _Maybe unconscious?_ ) wolf on his curly furred shoulder. The touch did nothing to stop the twitching. Instead, it seemed to make matters worse. He pulled the coffee table away from the writhing wolf and attempted to pull some of the blankets so that his long limbs wouldn’t get caught in them.

Once that was done, he ran to the bedroom and double checked that the door was closed. Molly could sleep through the beginning of the Third World War if she put her mind to it. He truly hoped that she was deep in dreams right now because she did not need to wake to the wolf having a seizure. She appeared to be the only person who was enjoying this new Sherlock completely, and seeing him in pain would destroy her. Another howl tore from the fur-covered throat, and Mycroft ran back to the living room.

He wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe for research purposes, maybe as a final reminder to himself about how he had ‘killed’ his brother, maybe because he needed proof that this was all real. Either way, he whipped out his mobile and began to record the seizure, placing his phone on the table where it could capture everything. It was just as painful to watch as the last time and, as with the previous time, he had nothing to ease his sibling’s struggle. He was helpless.

Sherlock was twitching now, his limbs spasming as he constantly yowled. His claws and paws kicked at his underbelly, probably scraping the skin there, though he did not appear to notice. “Oh, Sherlock,” the man moaned, resting his head in his hands, “What did I do to you?”

As the dawn began, the warm, golden and red sunlight streaming into the apartment, the wolf stopped as if frozen. “No,” Mycroft breathed. “No. Nononononono...”

The snapping began, sharp and crisp against the silence. It was joined by a high pitched whine coming from the clenched jaws of the wolf. The snapping and cracking, again beginning in the left foreleg, became more frequent. The limbs and bones began to rearrange themselves under the shag of the fur coat. Elbows reappeared, as did thumbs and pinkie toes, the neck shortened and thinned along with the tail, which appeared to retract. The spine contracted and bent. The body, with the fur retracting into the pale human skin, was most certainly that of his baby brother.

Sherlock was moaning, tears streaming down his face. He was panting and sobbing, but didn’t seem to notice that he had returned to his own body. Mycroft smiled lovingly. His brother was back. He pulled the blankets that he had removed earlier off the couch and wrapped them lovingly around the very naked form of his brother. Gingerly, knowing that the man who lay below him was probably in incredible pain, he wiped his sweaty brow with his starched handkerchief. “Go back to sleep, brother. When you wake, everything will be right with the world,” he whispered. _Or as right as it can be, given what just happened._ Unable to help himself, he placed a gentle kiss there, and rose, grabbing his phone from the kitchen table and retreated to the bedroom, exhaustion taking him at last.

__________________________________

The British government woke only a few hours later to the smell of coffee and the clatter of dishes. He threw on his dressing gown and grabbed his mobile before heading to the kitchen for breakfast. _Maybe Molly will have baked some of her delicious Eccles Cakes._ As he entered the kitchen, he was pleased to find Sherlock, still human and, thankfully, dressed, seated at the kitchen table, an entire pot of coffee before him on the table and a steaming mug in his hands.

“MYC!” Molly exclaimed. “Look! Sherlock changed back!” She was beaming as she scraped an enormous pile of eggs and beans on to his brother’s plate. A platter of ham sat in the middle of the table along with - “I made Eccles to celebrate!”

“Thank you, Molly Dear,” he said smiling and taking his seat beside his brother at the head of the table. “Hello Sherlock.”

“Mycroft,” the other man muttered.

“And how are we this morning?” the statesman smirked, despite his curiosity.

Sherlock glared at him with a look of pure hatred. “Let’s see, _Myc_. I just spent the last three days running around as a wolf, who, by the way, is a living, breathing squatter in my brain - It has it’s own wing in my mind palace - and the transition - transformation - mutation - whatever is - is the worst pain I have _ever_ experienced. Have you ever had every bone in your body broken into tiny pieces and then remolded into something quite different while your organs shift about in your chest and abdomen, Mycroft? _I have_. And it. Is. HELL! There are parts, especially of that first night that I cannot remember beyond one emotion - terror. And then _you_ , yes _YOU_ , Mycroft, decided that I wasn’t your brother anymore and that I was dangerous, which, in your defense, is definitely true. But I was still there, Mycroft. I could hear every little slight, every shred of doubt, every barb. I couldn’t eat with my hands, I couldn’t use the loo. I couldn’t sit at the kitchen table or sleep in a bed because I was an animal. That would have been bearable if you had only _believed_ in me. You put a collar on me - Your own BROTHER. And yet, through those horrible experiences, the wolf never doubted you. It kept calling you _Pack_. It still does. It went hunting for you and in those hours on the moor I felt free and alive and I didn’t want to leave that body, give up that freedom. It was so strange, how right it felt at times. Lying on the sofa, watching crap telly with Molly, or playing in the snow, or chasing those stupid rubber balls. So, honestly, while I feel like I was run over by a lorry after jumping off a building, I would do it again. Just to feel alive. The brain is what counts, everything else is transport.”

He took a lengthy sip from the mug clasped in his large hands. He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “And I don’t think I have a choice in the matter. The wolf is part of me now. I can never go back to being who I was.” The detective sighed, busying himself with his breakfast and drinking nearly the entire pot of coffee by himself. “I’d like to keep running tests, though, if that’s alright?”

Mycroft nodded, still processing the verbal tongue lashing that he had received courtesy of his younger sibling. “Yes, yes, of course,” he consented. “We should continue to further understand your...condition, to the best of our abilities. You shouldn’t have to endure unnecessary stress or pain to achieve...the end result. Am I right?”

The detective looked rather shocked, but nodded. Molly chimed in, taking the seat beside his, across from Sherlock. “Of course, you’re right, Darling. We will help in any way we can.” She reached across the table and took the other man’s hand, with it’s musician’s long, elegant fingers, and squeezed it. “Please know, Sherlock, that we will help you in any way that we can, for as long as you’ll let us.”

The dark haired man gave a small, shy smile, and breathed, “Thank you.”


	9. The Researchers

The following month was a flurry of activity. While he was thoroughly glad to be returned to his body, the thought of breaking free from the sterile facility and the barrage of tests niggled at the back of his mind, the wolf, ever present and pacing. It was quickly discovered that the thick, shiny liquid that was present in his blood but not his human perspiration, was also located in his saliva in both forms. He was pretty sure that it was the culprit for his recent transition as well as his acquired advances in human form, namely: night vision, sensitive hearing, acute smell, and a taste for red meat.

He had a few slight physical changes that accompanied him from wolf to human again. He had found that his tailbone was sensitive, if not a bit elongated. He was human and yet he had a small, half inch long vestigial tail. He found that he was incapable of slouching in a chair because of the pressure that it placed there. His ears had a slight angular nature to the once rounded top and his canines seemed to be slightly longer and more pointed, but nothing really noticeable. Or at least, not noticeable to Molly. Mycroft had noticed, of course, but he had known him literally since birth and was nearly as well-versed in deduction as he was. His brother, catching the glint of teeth or the slight tip of an ear, simply raised a single eyebrow and took note of it on his clipboard.

More upsetting was the addition of a knot at the base of his member. Like a dog. _Or a wolf._ Due to the semen specimens that Molly was interested in, him became rather intimately acquainted with it and how it strangely grew, flushed with blood. How it wanted to be squeezed, trapped, in order for him to achieve release. It was a strange feeling, certainly, but it was part of him now, whether he wanted it or not.

He continued to feel the need to be active, though, as the moon waned, it became less of a pressing matter and more of a habit. His eating habits also shifted with the phases of the moon, slowing down to one meal a day, still more than what had been usual, and picking up again as the moon came back around to complete it’s cycle.

The wolf also seemed to be effected by the silver goddess and her shifting face. The larger she was, the harder it was for him to maintain his typical behaviors. It drove his appetite, his choices of nourishment, his exercise habits, and, scarily enough, his moods. The further from the full moon, the more like two individuals they became, with the detective becoming less irritable and restless, and the wolf becoming calmer and less prone to trying to escape, taking to sleeping for long stretches of time. Of course, the man was not sure if the wolf could actually escape his mind without the aid of the full moon, but, at this point, he did not particularly wish to try.

The next moon was coming, sooner that he wanted, and he did not desire to go through that painful transition again if he could help it. While he was loathe to pump his ‘new body’ full of mysterious substances ( _Despite my rebellious youth, I really have no desire to end up in another rehabilitation center, hospital or, worse, dead_ ), he began to experiment with different compounds that inhibited pain that would be non-toxic to both his human body and the wolf form. With some help from the British government, he was able to obtain various canine pain medications from the local veterinarian and create a variety of mixtures with human drugs. The downside to this was, of course, that the only test subject was only available at the full moon, and, it was him.

Other preparations for him included testing old wives tales regarding werewolves and what could harm, maim, or kill them. While he was not happy about the rather mundane and less-than-perfect classification, on the most basic level, he was a man who could become a wolf. Hence: werewolf. The internet proved to be full of people who had claimed to be werewolf hunters and relayed their tales of valor against the savage half-man, half-beasts, including methods of killing them. The detective hoped that he could potentially suppress the need to change by poisoning the wolf within. He didn’t want to cause permanent damage, but, thinking long term, if he were to return to London and take cases again, he couldn’t be changing while chasing a criminal through the streets. He’d need a way to suppress it and the undeniable pull that the moon now had over his body.

Research showed that silver was deadly when it touched the heart in a solid form, such as a bullet or shrapnel. The emphasis of pure silver was driven home, making him think that liquid silver mixed with another substance might not be enough to kill him. Quicksilver, more commonly known as mercury, could also potentially kill him - just as it would a human. _Best avoid that_. Wolfsbane ( _Aptly named_ ) had varying degrees of potency depending on where the information was coming from. Some stated that a single touch to the skin would kill while others claimed that it was merely deadly if ingested. Others still claimed that it was only effective in repelling the beast, not in killing it. Other plants and herbs that the wolf was allergic to included rye, mistletoe, and mountain ash. Mycroft was sent to order those specific items but the detective knew that nothing would be ready to be tested for months.

_____________________________________

Molly sighed, scratching her nose with the back of her hand. She was placed on shiny liquid duty. The substance was proving to be rather fascinating as it appeared in certain bodily fluids but not in others. The thickness of the liquid was most definitely what had slowed the detective’s heart rate, the organ having to work harder in order to pump the semisolid blood infused with the silvery ooze. It did not appear to have any ill effects on the detective, however, and a quick CT scan showed that his heart had actually enlarged, most likely a side effect of his condition and the need to circulate the changed blood.

The presence in his saliva also made sense to her. He was bitten. It was only after the bite had occurred that the various changed had taken place and the shiny substance appeared in his bloodstream. It had to be introduced somehow and from the mouth to his leg to the blood seemed to be the most logical explanation. Sherlock, of course, was already aware of this, the thought having come to him during his time in the plexiglass tank. He had the potential to change another human being, and it frightened him ( _Not that he’s ever going to let his worry show or express it out loud_ ).

What was proving to be frustrating for her was her inability to discover what it was made of. No matter how close she got to in under the microscope, it never broke down into anything besides what it appeared as - shiny, translucent mucus. Flustered, she turned to the other samples. Urine and sweat were clean, no traces found, though the wolf urine had a much stronger smell. “Pheromones,” Sherlock had explained. “It allows me to mark my territory, alert others to my presence. Find and attract a mate. Though, at this point, it’s rather unnecessary, don’t you think?”

Rolling her eyes and smiling in response, she was not sad to throw those waste materials out and begin with the slightly less smelly collection of semen. Interestingly, the man’s output had increased to nearly twice the human sample that was collected prior to his transformation. The sperm and fluids, at first glance, did not have any of the shimmering liquid. She put it to the side and moved on to other things.

________________________________________

Mycroft, being more the politician than the scientist, made it his duty to run the errands for other two as well as to educate himself about the wolves, the people like Sherlock. He poured through volumes and volumes of varying languages and ages. Some ancient texts described Sherlock’s affliction exactly: men, seemingly normal except that they were attacked by a wolf-like animal, become that wolf-animal on or around the full moon each month, killing innocents, turning others. They had become such a threat that the peoples went on vast hunts, a tradition that was carried on in the higher classes to this day. The tradition had changed of course, due to the vast depletion (and supposed extinction) of the werewolf species, to the nobleman’s fox hunt.

The statesman knew for a fact that the species was not extinct. Oh no, they had just gotten more clever. They chose their victims well. Sherlock, for instance, was of the highest intelligence ( _Though I’m not going to tell him that_ ), a fine physical specimen as well, when he remembered to eat and sleep ( _Something with wolf is forcing him to do anyway_ ). Young, hardy, with a mind that he used to remain alive, even against the greatest of enemies. He was leaps and bounds ahead of his medieval predecessors who had very little self-preservation and were vastly over confident. After the hunts began in the fourteenth century, even earlier in some countries, the mention of the original man who became a wolf vanished from literature. The new werewolf was a man with wolf-like features on the full moon with no intelligence or recognition of any kind, a monster in the truest sense. It was within those texts that the rise of the Hunters was documented along with the various ways to kill, maim, or hinder attacks. He knew that his brother was looking for ways to slow or prevent transformation ‘just in case,’ but the more he read, the less likely it seemed that it would be possible. It was frustrating. His brother, while far from the most perfect specimen of humanity, was still his brother and he could not sit idle and watch him battle this _disease_ alone. Not like he did with the _other one_.

So he began to do what he did best, prevent a crisis. There were others out there besides Sherlock ( _Obviously. He didn’t just turn himself on a whim or in some experiment gone horribly wrong_ ). At some point, his brother’s identity as ‘human’ would be compromised and something would have to be done about it. Two things could happen: He could be shunned and discriminated against ( _Which, let’s face it, that will happen no matter the outcome_ ) or he could be semi-accepted as human, a human that happened to have a contagious and incurable disease. He began to implement an escape route to Canada ( _Plenty of open space for the nights when the pull of the moon was too strong to resist_ ) as well as drafting laws and speeches promoting the rights of werewolves.

______________________________________

A few days before the full moon and the three of them were in the lab together. Sherlock had just returned from a rather lengthy run, while Mycroft and Molly had just finished their tea. Mycroft was typing away at his laptop feverishly, whispering to himself as if he thought no one could hear. The detective picked up a lot of “No, not quite”‘s, and “Better phrasing”‘s and “Not good enough”‘s. He was combining liquid silver with wolfsbane, the smell of the mixture burned his nose uncomfortably, despite the mask that he was wearing, their potency apparent. While short tests deemed both substances nontoxic in small doses when touched to his skin, he did not want to know the damage when combined, or at least, not yet. Molly was looking closely at the werewolf’s sperm. Splicing into the cells, Molly was able to separate out the DNA. _Oh, this is interesting._

“Sherlock? Mycroft?” she called hesitantly. “You’re going to want to see this.”

The two men quickly dropped their own experiments and hurried to the woman bent over the microscope. Her hair fell across her face, obscuring her expression from the curious brothers. She sat back and pulled her hair up into a loose ponytail. “Boys, I have found out _exactly_ what the mysterious shiny mucus-y liquid is. It’s DNA.” She pushed away from her lab table with a satisfied smile, looking first at her fiancé and then at her friend, their expressions were mildly surprised.

“DNA?” Sherlock droned, not believing.

“Yes, DNA,” she confirmed. “Take a look for yourself Mr. Consulting Detective.” The dark haired man bent to the microscope, his mouth a tight line. “The bite was infused with DNA. It then altered yours, probably completing it with the strange magic of the full moon that caused you to transform. I wasn’t sure until I looked at your sperm. The semen was free from the liquid, so I set it aside for a while and then, today, I was drawn to splice it open, check out your DNA. You have 78 chromosomes - just like a wolf. That’s 32 extra and they appeared, seemingly, out of nowhere. Pre-moon, those chromosomes were not present. Now, a single touch of your blood or saliva, you can turn someone.”

The detective gave her a look that read: ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ “I know, I know.” Molly smiled briefly, before the grin faded. “This also means that any children you may have _could_ inherit your ability. They could be wolves too.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow cocked in interest, scooting his chair over to look at his brother’s DNA. The young man stood with an inhale. “I guess it’s a good thing that I find sex to be a pointless pursuit that I am uninterested in.” He stood quickly and continued, “You should destroy the samples. We can’t have them falling into the wrong hands.” He strode away purposefully, obviously hiding his emotions as he exited the lab.

His emotions were going crazy. His rational thought was being compromised by the rising instincts of the wolf. It was two days before he shifted last month and the wolf knew that he was going to get a chance to run soon. The wolf was not happy with his previous statement, and, honestly, he wasn’t either. He was not particularly thinking that he had wanted children but he had liked having the option. Now it was gone. He would not see anyone else cursed with this burden that he bore.

The wolf surged and he punched a wall, the cinderblock cracking on impact, his hand throbbing as the bones began to reknit. It would be perfect again in five minutes, but the brief moment of pain brought everything back into focus. He was a man. A consulting detective, the best and only person to hold that occupation in history. He was a spy and an assassin, hunting down his prey to all the ends of the Earth. He was a wolf, carrying a genetic alteration that had changed his life. But, more importantly, he was Sherlock Holmes, and he was a survivor.


	10. Sherlock

His paws hint the frosty ground, blazing a trail through the inches of white fluff that instantly clung to his curly coat. It was great to be outside, feel the wind ruffling his coat and the crunch of the icy precipitation beneath the pads of his paws. The cold air tickled his nostrils, bringing him scents of small mammals and one herd of deer. The moonlight sparkled against the snow covered rocks, trees, and hills. The world seemed to come alive, just as he came alive. Alone. On the moor.

It had been over a year since that first transformation and, while the terrifying unknown of it all had faded, the power and abilities of this form never ceased to amaze the detective. The alertness. The strength. The speed. The incredible heightened senses. Nights like these, alone on the moor with only the moon for company, made him realize how lucky he was that the wolf had entered his life. He howled up at the perfect disc. _Happy New Year_.

And what a year it had been. The first shock had come directly after his first moon. While he knew and understood that he had just spent the last three days and nights running around as a wolf, he was taken aback to find that some of his canine characteristics had transferred to his human body. Then, just before his second moon, he had been told that his DNA had been altered. That he had 78 chromosomes, like a wolf, no longer human. The knowledge that he was something ‘other’ had haunted him, chasing his thoughts between total joy and utter despair like the wolf that had run through his mind.

His partner was no longer there. Why would it be, when it had never existed in the first place? No, he was the wolf and the wolf was him. As soon as he accepted that he was the same, no matter his form, he had made his peace with it. The brain is what counts, everything else is transport. The manifestation of the wolf within his mind palace was something he had created to embody the new, and not always rational, instincts that accompanied the body. Once he had realized that, he had striven to find what his limits were. He had found away to control his shifts gradually, pushing and pulling with his very nature. Through experimentation he had discovered that he could not change on the New Moon. It was the only day that he felt weak, his advanced senses diminished to their purely human state, which made them far superior to those around Baskerville but left him feeling like he had lost a limb. The only people who were tolerable were Mycroft (just barely) and Molly. Most everyone else in the compound ignored him and his grating presence. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. The fewer people who knew about him, the better it would be for him.

He had been working with the medical examiner on creating a drug to prevent his shifts on the night of the full moon as well as a pain killer for the transformations. He rapidly learned that the painkillers were ineffective and, as he changed more frequently for his experiments, the pain seemed to become less acute and more like an aching throb that settled in his very bones as they shifted. The transformation, along with becoming less painful, also became shorter, lasting about a minute on full moon nights, and only five minutes the day before or after the new moon.

He also had wanted to understand what was harmful in this form and the easiest thing to do was to expose himself to the various substances in the tiniest amounts and pray that he didn’t die. The silver proved to be a wives tale, with no harm coming from it in solid or liquid form. The herbs, however, proved to be a _very_ different story.

“Hold him down, Mycroft, so I can administer the epinephrin and stop this reaction,” Molly was shouting almost frantically.

“What do you _think_ I’m doing?” Mycroft yelled back, a wriggling and thrashing Sherlock wedged between his body and the exam table. “I’m not hugging him - he smells disgusting!”

The wolf yowled even louder. The splinter of mountain ash had been removed with tweezers, though the skin was still relatively raw, it had healed quickly once it was removed. The rye was ineffective alone, but, when mixed in a liquid form with mistletoe, it had induced vomiting. The aptly named wolfsbane, however, was the most potent of the bunch. Sherlock was going into shock, convulsing and foaming at the mouth. Mycroft was glad for the precautions that he had taken because his Hazmat suit was covered in Sherlock saliva, and thus, his werewolf turning DNA. “Hurry Molly, or we’ll lose him!” He shouted through the suit speaker.

“I’m going.” She roughly grabbed a hind leg and pulled it out straight, the needle poised over the bulging muscle of his flank. Whispering a short prayer that this would work, she jabbed the shot in and slid the plunger home. Pulling the needles out, she rubbed the injection site vigorously, ignoring the strong kicks and buffets she was receiving on all sides.

Slowly, the spasms stopped and Sherlock began to pant, his sides heaving with his previous lack of oxygen. “There,” Molly said. “Let’s put him back in the apartment and let him rest. He’s had enough excitement for one day.”

That concoction, he had later discovered, could slow the effects of the moon. If he injected a small dose, about 15cc’s, at sundown while still in his human form ( _That was key, to prevent more than a permanent and less living fate_ ), he could buy himself about four hours of humanity on a full moon night and the worst hangover headache and dry heaves imaginable the following morning. His rapidly healing body was too busy fighting the poison for that time to expend energy changing. While he did not find the need to use the drug (And experience those awful side effects), he was pleased to know that he could.

During the year, he had remained at Baskerville. For all intensive purposes, he was still dead. He was not quite ready to make his resurgence into the stream of human kind. His parents, much to his frustration, had come to visit twice. He had given into Mycroft’s relaying of their request to see him with one condition: They could not and would not know about his new abilities, or the fact that he was no longer human. His brother, being a sensible person, had agreed and Mummy and Father had come to Baskerville for Easter (a new moon) and Christmas (a full moon - where he had confirmed the use of his newest ‘cure’ for an evening of eye-rolling that was only saved by his midnight jaunt along the frozen river that traversed the moor).

While he had not left the confines of his new home, his brother and his fiancée had. Mycroft had been coming and going, mostly to London on business, after his second moon. He had claimed that there was nothing more he could do, that it was all up to Sherlock.

Of course, that was a lie. The detective knew that. He had snooped through his brother’s drawers at the first chance he had had and he had discovered the first draft. The first draft that could change his life, and the lives of everyone in Britain, nay, the world. _The Declaration of the Rights of Werewolf-kind_. He still loathed the term ‘werewolf,’ but if Mycroft wanted to use it, then so be it. He certainly wasn’t going to tell his brother that he had seen it. Besides, if he was careful, and the wolf that had turned him never showed up, nothing would ever come of the document.

Molly had left Baskerville twice: once in June for a wedding and once in December for a funeral. Sherlock did not need to be told to know that the wedding was John’s. While he had not exactly kept tabs on the man, he occupied a rather extensive portion of his mind palace and he cared deeply for him. He was Pack, after all, even if he didn’t know it. And now, with his new wife, probably an adventurous blonde with a hazy past, he probably never would. With John happy, there was no need for him to reenter his life. Since John was Pack, his new wife (According to the poorly hidden invitation, her name was Mary Elizabeth Morstan) was Pack. He had spent the day of the wedding on the moor, chasing a fox through the heather and attempting to forget his emotional connection to the man who was getting married.

The funeral had devastated the red-headed woman, and his brother to some extent, though he hid it much better than Molly. Again, he did not need to be told that the funeral was for Mary. It was obvious, really. Molly, being a woman, would have been closer to John’s wife than Mycroft, and thus been more upset at her death. However, she had spent a good eight months with him in Baskerville before leaving for the wedding, and so she hadn’t known the woman very well or for very long. However, the woman was obviously important to someone else who was very important to Molly - _John_. Hence, John’s wife had died. It had been unexpected, not terminal illness. Something traumatic, then. An accident.

That was why he was out here on New Years Eve. He could not think of any other way to ring in the coming year. A year that would change his life and the life of the person that mattered most to him.

He tossed his curled head back, howling his joy for his return to London, Baker Street, and John Watson. A very happy New Year it would be.


	11. Sherlock

London was very different from what he remembered. Nothing had truly changed physically, but his heightened senses were firing rapidly. The sights were way too bright and startling and abrupt. He was fidgety and jumped at the stimulation, fighting back the instinctual response to chase and capture it or to run away from it, the larger, more dangerous predator. The sounds were deafening and he worked hard to resist throwing his hands over his sensitive ears. Lastly, the smells were a smorgasbord of flavors, which, on the street, were a general mixture of nasty waste and mouth-watering food. He was sure that he looked like a drug addict in a haze of his latest hit, but he didn’t care. It was strange being back in London, but he would adjust to it just as he had adjusted to everything else. His bones resonated with the very traffic of the streets. He belonged here. He was home.

Mrs. Hudson had been informed of his impending return to Baker Street and Mycroft had moved his things from storage and had them placed back in his apartment. He explicitly asked that everything was placed _exactly_ where it had been, but, even with his brother’s thorough observational skills, he knew that things would not be where he desired them to be. That, and 221B would be filled with a ridiculous amount of smells left from the movers and the cleaners that would drive him crazy for a few days until his wolf musk took over. Unless he shifted. Then his scent would penetrate the apartment and eliminate the stench of the moving men. Well, he’d have to see...

He slid his key into the lock, tweaking the knocker so that it was askew, as it always was when he had lived with John. The man was too short to grasp it without tilting it down. Sherlock smiled. _I’ll be seeing you soon, John_.

“Who’s there?” a shrill elderly female voice called from the kitchen. “Sherlock? Is that you?”

“Mrs. Hudson!” he called back jovially, not realizing how much he had missed his not-housekeeper until that moment. He strode into the lower flat, the smell of the woman ( _Peonies and biscuits along with that distinct old person smell_ ) flooding his nostrils. _Pack_. He registered the scent, cataloguing it for later.

Placing his suitcase on the floor, he ruffled his curls, sending some of his own scent into the surrounding air, letting other’s know that he was there. The sound of hands drying and frantic footsteps on hardwood reached his ears. Shortly after, the little brown and grey-haired woman came into view, a shocked smile on her face. Her arms opened wide and he obliged her, stepping into her thin, frail arms for a moment before stepping back again, still uncomfortable with physical contact in his human shape.

“Oh, Sherlock, how I’ve missed you!” she exclaimed, rubbing his arms with her weathered hands, beaming up at him. “When Mycroft told me the news, well, frankly, I was shocked. I fainted dead away.” She chuckled.

“I’m...sorry...you were put through that,” he muttered, knowing that the expression of the sentiment would make the elderly woman happy. He may have felt genuinely apologetic too, though he’d never tell Mycroft and would fervently deny it in the future. It had been for her own protection anyway.

She smiled, laying a hand tenderly on his cheek, and continued. “I know, dear. But then I thought, ‘Dead! Not my Sherlock. If anyone could cheat death, it would be him.’ And here you are in my foyer! How are you, Sherlock? You haven’t aged a day it seems.” Her face became slightly peculiar, staring at him intently before she looked away. “Goodness me, listen to me prattle on like the crazy old lady that I am. Any way, you must be tired from your trip? You can go upstairs and get situated. Everything’s in order - I think. I’ll get some tea, shall I? Just this once.” And with that she turned and headed back towards her kitchen. As she vanished around the door jam, he heard her whisper, “It’ll be so nice to have both my boys under the same roof again.”

His lips twitched up into a minuscule smile. So John was here then. _Excellent._ “Don’t forget the biscuits, Mrs. Hudson,” he intoned, picking his bag up off the floor and ascending the well-worn wooden steps to 221B Baker Street two at a time. When he reached the landing outside of the flat, he stopped, sniffing the air and taking in the scents that surrounded his home. The stench of sweaty moving men was rather potent, filled with lack of hygiene and stale cigarettes, blocking most of the other smells that had collected in the hallway. Concentrating, he took another deep inhale, savoring the flavors as they played on the back of his tongue. _Bleach - cleaning supplies from the cleaners, dust - they didn’t do a very thorough job, leather, paper, book binding glue, red meats, fresh vegetables - Mycroft stocked the fridge, tea, various chemicals for my experiments._ He stopped and sniffed again. It was very faint, barely there underneath the recent activity, but he knew instantly what it was. Who it was. _John. Gunpowder, tea, wool_. There was a hint of something else too, a light lavender scent that mingled with John’s. _Mary_.

Firmly, he grasped the worn door handle, turned it and pushed the door open. Scanning, he took note of the wallpaper and the moldings, the yellow smiley face and the bullet holes still well in tact. The placement of the furniture was nearly flawless, though the books truly had no rhyme or reason to their placement. After all, who put anything in alphabetical order? He’d need to fix that, and soon, before the lack of organization drove him mad. Billy grinned broadly from the mantle, his stash long gone, as was, he assumed, the cache of cigarettes in the toe of his silk slippers. He was surprised with how little it bothered him, but, then again, he had a more ‘natural’ means of escaping reality, away to put his mind to rest without harming his body in the process. The Wolf was the perfect drug.

Remembering Mrs. Hudson’s mention of his old flat mate, he projected a “John?” into the small apartment and cocked an ear for a response. The only sound he heard came from the whistling of the kettle on from the floor below. He frowned, confused, but continued to his chair and sat heavily, needing something in the flat to smell like him. Maybe, after Mrs. Hudson left, he’d shift and eliminate the bothersome stench of non-Pack humans from the air. His teeth grated as he tried to ignore the overbearing smell, his inner alpha clawing to the surface. _Intruders. Encroachers on my territory. 221B is mine and my Pack’s._ He inhaled sharply, his rational thought taking over. _Mrs. Hudson cannot know. She needs to remain as far away from this as possible. Same with John, wherever he is. The fewer that know the better. Patience. After she is gone, I’ll rub against every inch of this flat._

Satisfied, while breathing shallowly through his slightly parted lips, he wriggled in his leather chair, obliterating any scent that was not his on the fabric and listened to the faint clatter of the china cups rattling against their saucers as the slippered feet of Mrs. Hudson ascended the stairs to 221B. He smiled at the thought. It would be like old times. He caught a whiff of Earl Grey from the fourth step on the stairs, reminding him that, no matter what he wanted, it would never be like ‘old times.’

“Sherlock,” the older woman huffed a bit as she entered, tray in hand. Sherlock eyed her, hands under his nose in an attempt to block some of the masculine musk that tainted the air of the flat and responded with a curt, “Mrs. Hudson.”

She placed the tray on the coffee table and poured two cups, adding a hint of lemon, and stated, “I’m just so glad that you’re back. It’s been very quiet here without you. And when John moved out, oh, I thought I’d never find another person to rent this flat, much less 221C!”

She handed him a steaming cup and sat opposite him, on John’s worn, plaid chair. Unable to stop himself, he loosed a faint growl, which he then tried to pass off as a cough. Judging by the odd expression on the woman’s lined face, it did not really work. _She’s practically senile. She won’t remember if I get her talking._

“John moved out.” It was a statement, not a question. While he was only slightly surprised, it had been three years and one very short marriage later, it still stung.

“Of course, dear. He left, oh..., about two and a half years ago. He lived with his sister for a time, I believe, then got his own place in Smithfield, near St. Bart’s. He moved in with Mary very shortly into their relationship. To think of it - cohabitation before marriage!”

“You seemed rather keen on the two of us living together when you thought John was gay,” Sherlock intoned, matter-of-factly sipping his cup of tea.

“Well, that’s different, Sherlock. That was back before gay’s could marry. I was just being supportive.” She smiled as she sipped some Earl Grey, obviously thinking about the first interaction with the three of them, all those years ago. “Any way, it’s so wonderful to have the both of you here again. It’s great help, having renters, but it’s even better having my boys back under my roof.”

“John’s back?” He cocked his head curiously. The woman was finally getting to the part that he was interested in hearing. His reason for leaving the safety of Baskerville for the city that sang through his blood almost as equally as the Moon. Two violently different songs and two very different sides of him. Two of the most important parts of him.

“Oh, yes dear. His wife, Mary - such a lovely girl. So beautiful and polite. She finally got him to move on, after, well, after you died. Oh, Sherlock.” She set her tea down with a rather loud clink. The wolf flinched at the sound. “Why did you have to do that? I mean, I know you had to, but in front of John?! Lestrade had him on suicide watch for a while. He was a wreck, going through the motions until he met Mary. She saved him, Sherlock, and now she’s gone too.”

The consulting detective blanched. _Going through the motions? John Watson?_ The ex-army doctor was one of the strongest men that he knew. To think that the man who had saved him, shown him how to be human, had nearly left this earth, was a truly awful thought.

The elderly woman stood and began to rummage about with the tea tray. “He’s moving back here, though. Couldn’t face living in the house that he built with Mary. He couldn’t make himself take 221B either, your memories are all over this flat, so he’s moving into 221C upstairs. Tonight or tomorrow, I believe. Whenever the hospital releases Evelyn.”

Sherlock handed back his empty cup to the landlady and asked, “Evelyn?” _Mary, not dead for a month and John’s moved on. Maybe he didn’t love her that much after all._

“Oh, yes. She’s so lovely. Such a beautiful girl. You’ll just adore her, Sherlock. I know it.” The older woman smiled, her face’s wrinkles and lines pulled into a kind display of affection. She bustled from the flat quickly with a soft, “It’s so wonderful. Both my boys back.”

The wolf sat, hands under his chin, listening as the woman descended the stairs and returned to her cozy kitchen. Sighing, the thought of John and the mysterious Evelyn running through his mind, he rose and closed the door, sliding the bolt home. He did not want a curious landlady walking in on a sightly confused and territorial werewolf.

He strode purposefully through the flat, past the bath and into his bedroom. The smell of other people was less prominent here than in other places. Mycroft’s scent of old, leather-bound books and ink, mixed with tobacco and the inevitable sugar, was in the room and on the sheets. His closet, filled with his clothes, brought from Baskerville or pulled from their storage at his parents’ home in the country, thankfully retained most of his scent mixed with those of Mycroft and his parents. _Pack_.

The detective eyed the treadmill, the only new addition to the entire flat, and opted to go for a quick run. He was on the downward slope to the New Moon, and was, thus less prone to excessive energy, but, not knowing what the wolf might want to do, besides rub all over every inch of the flat, it was better to shift while tired.

The run was refreshing, doing nothing to really test his limits. It did feel great to stretch his legs and pull air into his lungs in the act of _doing_. He put in an hour, his distinct redolence filling his bedroom. As he stepped off the machine, he began the change, pulling his t-shirt and shorts off as his bones crunched and his innards shifted, he flipped his trainers (a Christmas gift from Molly so that he didn’t have to run barefoot) off last as his ankles began to elongate and his pinkie toes disappeared. The socks as well as his pants were a lost cause, ripping as his shape changed.

With a loud whine, he shook out his coat, loose fur falling among his discarded clothes and the remnants of the not so lucky items. His olfactory senses tingled with the foreign odors of the space he inhabited, causing his hackles to raise in defense. _My den. Mine. Intruders._ Reining in his instinct to demolish every item that was desecrated by the humans that had invaded his flat, he growled low in his throat.

His nails clicking along the wood floor, he began to run back and forth through the flat, snapping at the foreign and threatening scent of the moving men and the cleaning crew, rubbing his maw and body over every available surface. He hopped up on the couch, rolling over and over on the cushions, fur clinging to the throw rug on the back. He scattered the papers that littered his desk and coffee table, knocked over a lamp, and after some contemplation, marked his territory in the fireplace. Running back through the flat, his scent became more prominent as he drew closer to his bedroom causing him to smile wolfishly, his tongue lolling out over his sharp teeth. He leapt up onto the bed, hopped around on it in tight circles and used his momentum to launch himself back into the jumbled mess of his flat.

He ran through the kitchen/laboratory, depending on what the table would end up being used for. Maybe, since he was eating regularly, he’d split the table in half - no two/thirds. He didn’t need too much space for food. Turning sharply, he whipped back into the sitting room and run around his chair and John’s chair, littering the hard wood with dark, curly fur. Suddenly, he stopped, pausing as he caught a whiff of John. He sniffed the worn plaid of the chair his friend had claimed as his own so many years ago and instinctively rubbed his head against the back, mingling his musk with the heavy scent of John.

Yes, it was good to be home. His prized possessions were about him, his landlady was downstairs, oblivious as usual, and soon, he would be reunited with John, his best friend. He flopped into the carpet, panting, his tongue lolling out of his gaping mouth, completely consumed by bliss.


	12. John

The day had been a long one. The army doctor sighed, rubbing his face in his worn hands in an attempt to remain awake. He was beginning to truly loath his occupation. Or at least the location of his occupation. It felt as if he lived at St. Bart’s in it’s sterile, off-white walls and the constant beeping of the medical equipment.

It wasn’t always like this. He had enjoyed his times at the clinic, caring for the bumps and bruises of everyday life while his flat mate ( _Oh, Sherlock..._ ) mucked around in the morgue or chased some lead with reckless abandon. Or, much to his dismay, fiddled with unknown substances in the flat while, hopefully, not burning the place to the ground. John sighed, shuffling his notes and files from the day. He had moved on, and yet, he still felt as if Sherlock would come bounding back through the door, scarf wrapped around his ridiculously long neck that was further emphasized by his constantly popped collar, and yell for him to come on. A case was waiting, they were needed at the Yard. But he never came. Not for the last three years.

 _I wonder what he would have thought of Mary._ They were so different from each other, and yet, he couldn’t help but think that they would have gotten along. The doctor pushed his chair back from his overcrowded desk and stood, grabbing his coat. His thoughts lingered on his late wife. She had been his savior in his darkest hour, literally pulling him up off the street when he couldn’t stand on his own any more.

It had been a year after Sherlock’s death that Mary had found and rescued him. Their courtship had been a whirlwind of memories, tea shops, little delicatessens, awkward dinners with Harry and Clara, and nights dancing beneath the stars. She had been the sun in the sky and he worshipped her. A year later, they were engaged after a small walk through Hyde Park at sunset. The happiest moment in his life, or so he had thought, seeing that little diamond perched on Mary’s slim finger. The wedding was flawless, with one exception. John had refused to take a best man, leaving the space open in honor of the man who would have been standing there, who should have been standing there. His best friend.

When Mycroft had replaced the music Mary had chosen for their first dance with what sounded like a solo violin concerto, he had bitten back the tears. It sounded like Sherlock, standing at the window of 221B, backlit by the street lamps, composing in an attempt to occupy his brain and release some of his bottled up emotion. It was perfect and it was like nothing he had heard before - wild and untamed, yet caring and compassionate. Very like his romance with Mary.

It was only after the wedding that they had found out the most wonderful, life-changing news: Mary was nine weeks pregnant. The next six months were full of doctors appointments, paint chips, the purchase of baby items, and general happiness, when Mary wasn’t having ridiculous mood swings or morning sickness.

Then, the world had come crashing down. The army doctor still remembered that phone call like it was yesterday. Just after her eight month appointment, right out in front of the hospital, not feet from where Sherlock had breathed his last, his savior, his wife, had been hit by a drunk driver. The mad scramble, filled with screaming, blood, and tears was a mixed memory of emotional ups and downs. One horrifying surgery later, he was a single father to one very sick premature baby girl. _Evelyn Mary, born 6:37pm December 13, four pounds eleven ounces, screaming and thrashing out of what was left of the only woman he had ever loved._

And today, one month later, his little girl was coming home. Their new home. He couldn’t raise a child on his own so, after much contemplation and soul searching, he had talked to Mrs. Hudson about moving back to Baker Street. He couldn’t take the flat that he had spent three years in with his best friend, so he opted to take the two bedroom flat across from what had been his bedroom. It was cozy, with a small sitting room that faced the street with a galley kitchen attached to the common area. The hallway led to a cozy bathroom and two bedrooms, one right next to the other. The one at the end of the hallway was his, big and empty. The nursery faced the bathroom and was painted the bright, cheery yellow that Mary had picked out and painted the nursery at their home. Everything had been brought over, more for the baby than for him. While the house had been emptied and sold, he had found it difficult to retain most of the items that filled it, too many memories of Mary were associated with them.

His shoes clacked along the tile to the NICU, the baby carrier swinging from his hand jauntily. As he rounded the bend to the reception area, he gave a small wave and a smile to the nurses stationed there. They had all been very kind, if not a bit flirtatious. They knew, of course, of the tragic loss of Mary, and their sympathy was appreciated. Their advances, however, were not.

“Today’s the day, Dr. Watson. Are you excited?” The smiling face of Charlotte, the head nurse, greeted him from behind the desk.

The blonde man couldn’t help but smile. “Of course, Charlotte. Thank you for asking.”

“Sharon will be right out with her. I’m sure she’s going to be so happy to be home with her Da.” The woman, a young curly red-head, leaned further over the counter that separated her from him. John took a small step back, his smile tightening. “Do you have anyone to help you? The first few months are rough.”

“Well, in fact my neighbor...”

He was cut off by the nurse rather abruptly. “Well, Doctor. Please, take this. It’s my cell number, in case of emergencies. Daddy’s have to sleep and get away for a while too.”

The squeak of trainers on linoleum abruptly ended the conversation, with a crumpled piece of paper being stuffed into John’s free hand as Sharon rounded the corner, a small bundle swaddled in her shapely arms. “Oh,” she cooed, “An’ ‘oo is this?! It’s Da! He’s come to take ya ‘ome.”

The buxom woman smiled at him. “Are ya ready, Doctor?”

John’s smile forced itself back onto his lined face. He both was and was not ready. The little babe, beautiful and perfect, like her mother, was his last piece of Mary. He loved her dearly, more than his own life, and yet, he was not sure he wanted that reminder. A ghost that lived and breathed and needed his constant attentions and affection. “Yes, of course,” he found himself responding on autopilot.

Gently, he snuggled the blanket more tightly around the little girl and placed her bonnet on her tiny head, tying it securely in place before kissing her rather prominent forehead that was scattered with thin, light blonde hair. She yawned and snuggled deeper into the warm, soft fabric. “Come, Angel. Let’s go home,” he whispered before kissing her again.

Straightening, he gathered the baby carrier and bid his thanks and goodbyes to the nurses of the NICU, not at all sad to see the last of that desk or the clingy nurses. He had spent many a lunch hour and a long night in this specific wing of St. Bart’s and had decided that he never wanted to see it, or anything associated with it, ever again.

When he exited the hospital for a well-deserved paternity leave, he was met by a sleek, black car. Sighing and rolling his eyes, he got in the open door with a sigh. “Anthea, now is...” he began flabbergasted and exhausted with the theatrics of the older Holmes brother, but stopped abruptly when his grey-blue eyes lighted on the imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes himself. “Mycroft.”

“Hello John,” the statesman began. “Congratulations on your happy homecoming.”

The soldier fidgeted, keeping one hand firmly on the handle of the baby carrier and the other on his daughter’s tiny stomach. “Erm, yes. Thanks.”

Mycroft leaned back into the plush leather of the interior of the car. “You are probably wondering why I am here and not meeting you in another, more discreet location.”

John cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. There was nothing at all that was discreet about Mycroft Holmes, not when it came to his interactions with John. The elder Holmes continued. “I am here to bring you home. No sense in having your fragile child traverse the busy, crowded streets of London in a filthy cab.”

“Uh, thanks. That is kind of you,” John stated, not believing that logic for a minute. “Why else are you here, Mycroft?”

The British government gave a small cough. “Oh, just that I popped into Baker Street and found that Mrs. Hudson has a full house. There is a tenant in 221B. My research shows that it is a young man, mid-thirties, with a rather subject past. I will be keeping an eye on him. There is no need for you to worry.” He paused, smiling in a rather disconcerting manner.

The car pulled up to the curb out in front of 221 Baker Street with a soft squeak of the brakes. “Have a wonderful evening, John. And a delightful paternity leave with your little one. I’m sure Sherlock would be happy for you.”

Exiting quickly, the army doctor carefully removed his daughter from the vehicle and slammed the door solidly. The thought that someone, anyone, had moved into 221B made him uneasy. Mrs. Hudson had been so sure that it would remain empty. No one would want to live in a place that would be haunted by the ghost of the consulting detective, his presence hanging in the air and clinging to the walls like a dark stain on the world. But apparently, there was someone who did. Someone that the landlady approved of while Mycroft did not. A man, about Sherlock’s age, with a subject past. Whatever that meant. After all, didn’t everyone have a subject past?

Sighing, he unlocked the door and made his way into the warmth of the entryway of the building, allowing the delicious smell of Mrs. Hudson’s cooking waft into his nostrils. Not wanting to wake his now slumbering child, he walked to the door of the kitchen and wished the elderly woman a good evening. She cooed over the sleeping Evelyn and then hurried him up the stairs, telling him to get settled in and to give her a shout if he needed anything.

The stairs groaned under his feet as he counted the steps to what had been his home. There was a light on in the flat, streaming under the door in a golden beam, accompanied by the smell of beef stroganoff and garlic bread. There was a faint sound of a violin playing from behind the door. It was the song, _his song_. The song that he had danced to with Mary at their wedding. The song that reminded him of Sherlock. _Sherlock_.

Unable to stop the tears that flowed from his eyes, he reached for the door knob and turned it slowly in his hand. The door swung open to reveal 221B. Not a thing was out of place. It was just as he had left the flat two and a half years ago. His chair faced the grey leather of Sherlock’s lounger. The grinning skull sat on the mantle, the bull’s head hung on the wall. The books were crammed into the shelves, though there were stacks on the floor and on the end tables and desk. And standing there, backlit by the street lamp light, stood a tall figure with a loose, blue dressing gown flowing over his figure, a violin resting under his chin, nearly hidden by a head of dark curls.

“Well, it certainly took you long enough to get back from the clinic. Was it Mycroft? I’ll have to talk with him. He can’t keep using you for his dirty work.” The rumbly baritone, rich and warm, floated to his ears, and they drank it up as if it was water in the desert.

“Sherlock?!” His voice sounded strangled, disbelieving. The man turned, revealing the man that he had called his best friend, blue dressing gown over the tight white shirt and fitted black slacks. His looked nearly the same, only a few faint lines marred his long face on his noble brow and around his multi-colored eyes under his mess of dark curls.

Gently setting the baby carrier on the floor by the door, he felt a rather strong battle of emotions course through him. He took a couple of rapid steps towards the taller man, who set down the instrument and looked at him with a faint smile on his lips.

Once he was level with the consulting detective, he couldn’t decide what to do. “Sherlock. You’re. _ALIVE?!_ ”

“Yes, John. Obviously. I’m standing here, aren’t I?” The younger man still looked rather confused, his smile slipping.

“You didn’t think to tell me!” He was yelling now, the baby was crying, unhappy at being woken up from her dreamings.

“It was a need-to-know operation...” The consulting detective didn’t get to finish his rather pathetic and upsetting explanation. The ex-army doctor felt a rather pleasant crunch as his fist connected with the other man’s straight, obnoxious nose.


	13. Sherlock

He bit back a growl and the need to retaliate, to shift and to bite as his hands flew to his broken nose. “I suppose I deserved that,” he muttered. “But really, John? Was it necessary?”

“Yes,” the shorter man bit back. “Yes, Sherlock, it was. One word. That was all I needed. One word to tell me that you were not dead.”

Keeping one hand on his rapidly healing nose to ensure that it returned to it’s prior state of perfection, he tentatively reached a hand out to the shorter man. “I’m sorry, alright?!” he hissed before taking a deep breath and beginning again in a softer, calmer voice. “I am sorry, John. For not telling you. For staying away for the last three years. For missing your wedding. For not meeting Mary. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise, and you know that I don’t make promises.” He paused, laying his hand on the blonde man’s shoulder to express his companionship and regret. “I am not sorry, however, for doing what I did.”

John’s jaw was set, his teeth were gritted and grinding against each other as he seethed. “ _What?_ ” he hissed, his fists balled up at his rigid sides.

Removing his hand from the angry man’s shoulder, the consulting detective calmly said, “Are you hungry, John? I made dinner. Haven’t eaten yet. I was waiting for you.” He paused, a small smile flitting on his lips. The shrill cry of the infant was demolishing his ear drums and he would not be able to ignore it much longer, his minimal patience was wearing thin. “Also, if you would do something about that racket, I would greatly appreciate it. Does it need a bottle? The diaper’s clean.”

“Huh-how?” the other man stuttered. “Never mind.” The tension seemed to ease from his body as he returned to the door, turning his back on the wolf. Sherlock took the time to sniff the air the shorter man had stirred, closing his eyes. _John Watson. Invalided army doctor. Best friend. New father and widower. Gunpowder from his hidden firearm. Tea. Wool from the jumpers. Lavender, a remnant of Mary. Also faint sterile smell - St. Bart’s. Baby formula. New baby smell. Evelyn Watson. Pack. Must protect Pack._

When he reopened his eyes and removed his hands from under his chin, he caught John staring at him. His baby was tucked into his broad chest, her cries diminished to a faint whimper as she was rocked back and forth. The man didn’t say anything, he was too busy humming a tuneless melody to quiet her and bring her comfort, just as his violin playing had brought the soldier relief from his frequent nightmares in the early days. He cocked an eyebrow back at the man. “Dinner? It’s beef stroganoff. I will tell you everything. Answer all of your questions. Within reason. Mycroft made me sign a waver for some of it.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” the man said, rocking his child back to sleep gently, a finger stroking her cheek.

Sherlock headed for the kitchen and pulled the stroganoff and the garlic bread out of the oven, pleased to find the cheese on top a nice warm, melty brown. “Hmm,” he sighed, placing the dish on the scarred kitchen table, or at least the half that wasn’t covered with petri dishes and test tubes. “It’s never been a matter of international security before. But please,” he paused, gesturing to the chair opposite him, “Have a seat.”

The blonde man, though his hair was getting closer to grey than blonde now, kissed Evelyn on her lightly haired head and set her back into her carrier. With a slightly frustrated huff, he sat facing the detective. “You want to talk, talk. I’ll decide what to do with you after.”

Shoveling a healthy portion of the stroganoff onto his plate, the detective made eye contact with the shorter man and stiffened at his narrowed eyes. He took a shallow inhale, the hair on the back of his neck raising in response to the hostility rolling off the ex-army doctor, and began. “It was the only option, John. There was no other choice.”

The soldier slammed the serving spoon down on the table with a solid clunk. “There is always another choice, Sherlock.”

He shook his head sadly before whispering, “Not always. Not in that case. Moriarty had planned for everything, backed me into a corner. In order to save those dearest to me, I had to jump. They had to see me die.”

Confusion played across the doctor’s features. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” he smiled softly. “Mycroft and I accounted for that possibility. Operation LAZARUS. It was never my intention to die, or remain dead for as long as I did. I always meant to return here, to Baker Street, to Mrs. Hudson, to you. Other...matters just kept me away for a while.”

When John didn’t interject anything, Sherlock took the opportunity to eat some of his food and then continued, his hands steepled under his chin. “When Moriarty was on that roof, John, he gave me no other choice. By killing himself, he left me with no other option but to jump. I had not leverage over the snipers with him gone.”

“Snipers?” The soldier sounded skeptical.

“Yes, John, snipers. Do keep up.” His interjection was met with rolled eyes. “The snipers were situated to take out the people that matter most to me. Either they died and I lived or I jumped and they lived. It was simple, really. It is much easier to fake one death than three, especially since those three people didn’t realize that they were targeted.”

“Three -”

“Yes, three. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and yourself. Three. Stop interrupting.” He stuffed another forkful into his mouth. Shifting always made him enormously hungry. Swallowing, he said, “With the help of Mycroft, Molly, and my Homeless Network, along with impeccable timing on my part, we were able to stage my suicide. When I jumped, I landed on a large, inflatable bag, not the pavement. It was conveniently hidden by the lorry so you and Moriarty’s sniper could not see it. A well-placed bicycle messenger knocked you to the ground as the sniper was packing up, allowing the Homeless Network time to move the bag and time for me to douse my head and the sidewalk in blood from a blood bag and place a squash ball into my armpit, cutting off circulation. The disguised Network kept you back from my supposed body so that you wouldn’t notice any signs of life. It was rather simple really.”

He paused to eat some more, basking in his triumph over Moriarty, in his undisputed victory in the Game. “After a night in Molly’s guest room, I was off, detangling the web woven by the spider. It took two years, John, much longer than anticipated, but, I am pleased to say that every last operative has been neutralized and removed from the board.”

He grinned, watching the mixture of emotions flit across the other man’s face. Slowly, confusion and curiosity set in and the soldier met his gaze. “If it took two years to eliminate Moriarty’s network, why weren’t you back a year ago?”

Sherlock’s smile faltered. He hadn’t accounted for the doctor being so observant. Quickly, he blinked and told a half truth. “Mycroft needed my expertise for a government experiment. In fact, it is still on-going. I need to return to the facility once a month or so, make sure the test subjects are developing nicely.” _Developing nicely? How about not tearing about London and getting caught by someone. That would be a less than ideal situation, though I’m sure I could get out of it, if necessary. But it won’t be. I’ll be at Baskerville for the Moon, as usual, and now John won’t question it. He’s not observant enough to notice that all of the days I’m gone are days of the Full Moon._ “I can’t go into more detail about it. Just know that it is life-changing for those involved.”

The dark-haired man tucked into his now cool food, eating rapidly as his stomach growled, begging for the calories that he had expended. He knew that John was watching, knew that he was wondering why, and decided to let him form his own conclusions. If he asked, the detective might answer, so long as it wouldn’t reveal anything. The less the ex-army doctor knew, the better.

The silence was cut by the clink of silverware on china, clear and crystalline. “Are you experimenting on yourself, Sherlock? And don’t lie to me. I know you are.”

He stopped, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. Opting to not argue, he replied, “No, I am not experimenting on myself. At least not in the traditional sense. Mycroft made me pick up some healthy living habits - eating regularly, exercising, sleeping every 48 hours or so. Nothing too drastic, just different for me, normal for the rest of humanity. I am, of course, keeping track of the changes that I am experiencing, but no chemicals ( _At this time_ ) or anything like that.”

The blue-grey eyes across from him narrowed, calculating, searching. Sherlock raised his eyebrows infinitesimally. “I’m glad you’re back, Sherlock,” the other man finally said. He pushed back from the table. “But I really need some time alone to process this, okay?”

“Of course.” It was not ‘okay’ with the detective, his need for companionship with the blonde man gripping his instinct-driven body, but he could not force the human to do anything that he didn’t want to do. That was the beauty of John Watson. He was rational ( _to some extent_ ) and needed to come to terms with all the recent changes in his life, including the resurrection and return of a man he had thought to be long dead.

The other man gathered his coat in one hand and the baby carrier, a sleeping Evelyn wrapped tightly in crocheted blankets within it, and opened the door to the flat. “Thanks for dinner.”

As he headed out the door, the consulting detective called, “Any time.” Staring at the open door into the empty hallway, John’s footsteps retreating evenly up the stairs, a wave of emotion ran over him and he felt very much alone.

____________________________________

He had waited patiently, or as patiently as he could, listening to the doctor move about upstairs, hearing his daughter cry at all hours of the night and early morning, and still John did not come. He didn’t even approach his front door, having locked it firmly behind him the previous evening after their reunion dinner. He had thought that it had gone well, that the ex-soldier would be at his door in an hour or two, desperate for his intellect, or at least a reprieve from the irregular hours that Evelyn kept. Apparently, the blonde man did not think that it went that well.

At around four in the morning, Sherlock stopped his pacing. The newborn was up again, shrieking so loudly that he could have sworn that she was right beside him in the sitting room. Sighing, he picked up his violin. _John liked the violin, always helped him sleep. She’s part of John. Violin should help her sleep. Or at least stop this cacophony._ Resting the smooth wood under his chin, he pulled the well-rosined bow across taut strings of wound metal and drew a pleasant sound. Inhaling, he launched into a Brahms lullaby, one that his mother had sung to him as a child before he grew too old for such nonsense. It was a favorite of John’s, usually lulling the man into a deeper, dreamless sleep.

The Brahms led to JS Bach, then Schumann, and Beethoven. Telemann flew beneath his nimble fingers, followed by Schubert, Chopin, Ravel, Debussy, and, lastly, Handel’s “Air” from _Water Music_. The sun had risen low over the buildings of London and the city slowly came to life around him, peaceful and beautiful. He smiled out his window at the city - _his_ city, pleased to be back.

His ear caught the faint sound of John’s warm snore from above him. Someone, at least, had found relief in his music. Setting the instrument back in its case, the detective snapped the lid shut and made his way to the kitchen for a cuppa and maybe a bit of toast with marmalade. His stomach rumbled it’s consent to the thought of sustenance.

The fetor of the humans that had invaded and simultaneously restored his flat had faded to a dull background scent. It was covered mostly by his own personal scent but he found, happily, that it was accented by the fragrance of his Pack. Mycroft, uncomfortably more prominent in his bedroom than anywhere else; Mrs. Hudson, found near and around John’s chair; Evelyn, the newest addition but no less important, was by the corner of the couch closest to the door; and John, near Evelyn as well as at the kitchen table. Like old times, like before everything changed.

His tea was dregs in his mug, his toast was half consumed, the warm center eaten, leaving the less desirable crusts on his plate. Reflecting on the ‘good old days,’ he quirked an eyebrow. _Maybe it’s time I paid Lestrade a visit. I’m sure he’s completely hopeless without me. Miracle if anything was solved in the last three years._

His mind made up, the consulting detective pushed away from the table, leaving his plate and cup exactly where they were, and strode purposefully to the door. He grabbed his Belstaff and scarf, throwing the coat on dramatically and cinching the scarf around his neck, he flew down the stairs to find a cab to bring him to the New Scotland Yard so that he could continue doing what he did best - bailing out England’s ‘finest.’


	14. Lestrade

The paperwork that cluttered his desk seemed to continue to pile up about him. He had given up trying to see over the mountain of files while sitting down a long time ago, opting to meet with his team in the conference room so that they didn’t have to see the embarrassing amount of unsolved, now long cold, cases that he had yet to make any headway on.

The detective inspector rubbed his face with his hands before running them up into his very grey and white hair. The years had not been kind to him. Who knew that one dead man could cause so much pain?

After Sherlock’s suicide, he had gone through an incredibly messy divorce, his wife claiming that he was more in love with his job than with her. It was made even more hurtful when it was brought to light that many of his cases were solved with the help of the now presumed ‘fake’ detective. He had been denied rights to see his daughters for more than two days a month for no other reason than the fact that his wife was a psychotic bitch and that his job was all-consuming, chewing him up and spitting him back out in disgust. Sherlock had given him family time, now that the dark-haired man was gone, he had none.

He had also lost Anderson, a decent forensic analyst, because that man had decided that Sherlock was not, in fact, dead. How that conclusion came about, he had no idea unless it grew out of guilt, but, regardless of the cause, it had led to the Chief Inspector suspending the man from duty until he was proven mentally fit to resume. That, unfortunately, had only led to more time for Anderson to develop theories behind a miraculous escape by the detective and the founding of a rather eclectic mixture of people known as the ‘Empty Hearse.’ The club, for lack of a better term, discussed theories and collected ‘facts’ regarding the survival of Sherlock Holmes. Thankfully, Anderson had given up his pipe dream, or at least curtailed it last month and had returned to the Yard last week, already proving to be helpful in solving a recent case of a son-in-law who had killed his mother-in-law over his wife’s lost inheritance. The man, however, was still not his usual self, sporting a rather heinous and unkept beard and taking his lunch to talk to him about his latest theory about Sherlock’s survival. It had involved a bungee chord, a smashed window, a mask-wearing Moriarty, and Molly Hooper.

Sally Donovan, his partner with whom he had had many ups and downs through their association over the last few years, had become more reserved, sticking to her work and keeping her large, insult-slinging mouth shut. He had come close to decking her a few times after Sherlock’s death as she paraded about, proud as a peacock over the demise of ‘the freak.’ She had, in part, driven Anderson away, and, eventually, as her superior officer as well as her partner, it had been up to Lestrade to put an end to her gloating. Every word she said stung, cutting him deeply as his friend was dragged further through the mud by her callous remarks. That had been about a year and a half ago, that ‘talk’ that was truly more of a shouting match, a release of tensions. He had stood by the consulting detective’s good name and she had laid her claim before him. He had won the argument, and the woman had been cowed. She had not said a word regarding the younger Holmes brother since. Not until last month, when she had mentioned being called as a witness for the trial to put the discussion of Sherlock’s genuine brilliance to rest.

Greg snorted, remembering the news last week that Sherlock had been found innocent, had not been a fake, had in fact, been the genius that he remembered him being. It was too late. Three years too bloody late. The knowledge weighed heavily on the detective inspector and he rested his head in his hands on top of his latest case: a woman killed in her bed on the eve of her wedding. She had been staying in the guest room of her father’s home. While the body showed no trace of trauma, the woman’s sister had claimed to have heard her younger sibling yell something about a ‘speckled band.’ Assuming that her sister was talking about her bejeweled wedding band, she had done nothing. No one had come or gone from the room until the morning of the wedding, when the locked door had been broken down to find the woman dead. No weapon, no suicide note, no sign of forced entry, and one cryptic message. The perfect case for Sherlock Holmes.

He did not look up when his door swung open, frustrated at his incompetence and desperate to avoid being seen over the pile of papers by the only person who would be coming into his office at this point in the day: Anderson. Footsteps announced the newcomer and the door was shut firmly behind him or her.

Sighing, Lestrade mumbled, “Anderson, I know that you believe in Sherlock Holmes but that won’t bring him back.” He did not pick up his head or sit up. “Please leave me alone.”

“Seriously Lestrade. Are you incapable of solving even the most obvious cases?” There was a derisive snort. “What am I saying? How could I have assumed anything different?” The voice was deep, rich. Incredulous and very arrogant. Very Sherlock.

His silver head snapped up to meet the long face of the long dead detective. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, slowly standing to get a better look at the man who stood before him. The Belstaff coat, complete with red button hole and popped collar, covered the lean body, impeccably dressed in a suit, no tie, but a blue wool scarf knotted around that impossibly long neck. The dark curls were tousled, wind-blown from the wintery gusts that blew through the streets this time of year and emphasized the cheekbones and those unfathomable and dissimilar eyes of unimaginable colors.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, staring unblinkingly at the man who had begun to sift through the manila file folders on top of his desk muttering under his breath. As if he wasn’t even there.

Anger bubbled to the surface as the presumed dead man before him continued to scrutinize the cases with a well-trained eye. “YOU BASTARD!” he shouted, his fist clenching as his fury flooded out of him, replaced by relief, joy even.

“It was time to come back. You’ve been letting things slide, Graham,” the detective said, his hand gesturing to the paperwork that cluttered his desk.

“Greg,” the silver haired man responded, slightly ticked, but not really caring.

“Greg.” It was not stated dismissively, not entirely. There was a hint of something else, something that caused him to inhale sharply. The next thing he knew, he had his arms wound around the thin man’s neck, unbelieving while he clung to the taller man. The detective, never one to show affection, did not return the hug but did not pull away either. He stood and took it, inhaling deeply and allowing the DI to show his joy at his friend’s unbelievable recovery.

Of course, it was at that time that the door to his messy, and now slightly crowded office was opened once again. “Boy have I got another one fo-”

The nasally voice of Anderson was cut off by a strangled gasp and he watched the analyst’s take-away lunch drop to the floor in disbelief. Sherlock tensed beneath him with another sniff.

“Anderson,” his baritone intoned, “Turn the other way, you’re putting me off.”

“Uh...guh....sh..um.” The forensics specialist didn’t move anything but his mouth, which was gaping like a fish out of water in utter disbelief.

Greg dropped his arms and stepped back, leaning into a pile of cold cases that toppled off of his desk with a fluttering cascade of loose pages and pictures. He watched the detective flinch slightly at the noise before quickly spinning around to face the door, his coat flapping. “As pleased as I am to know that you became a turncoat and supported my good name, I am not thrilled at your presence, or that of your Bhindi Gosht. If you would remove yourself and that awful Pakistani dish.” His flapped his hands in a gesture that told the bearded man to ‘run along.’ The other man, still gaping in disbelief that his own theories could possibly be true, picked his styrofoam lunch container off the floor, and shuffled backwards out the door. Just as the door was about to shut on the shocked Anderson, Sherlock intoned, “And get rid of the beard. You look homeless. You don’t need everyone in the Yard to know that you’ve been spending nights sleeping in an empty holding cell, now do you?”

The door closed with a cut off “Hey!” and a solid click. “Now,” the detective spun to face the detective inspector again. “Give me something. I need work.” He began to pace, his shoes beating a regular tattoo on the well-worn and thread-bare carpet.

“Uh.” His mind was still comprehending what was happening that it wasn’t focused on anything else but the dark haired man who continued to stride across the small office, hands under his chin, though the rest of him appeared to be agitated.

“A case, Lestrade! Any case! A whole stack off your desk! I don’t care, just give me work.” The consulting detective’s eyes sparked with a rather insane gleam as he faced him again.

“Oh, a case...well...there’s this new one from this morning. A bride dead the night before her wedding with no signs of trauma.” He picked up the open file from the top of his computer and gave it to the taller man.

“Toxicology report?” The detective began to flip through the file that he had been offered, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Not performed. The father refused.” He watched the eyebrows part with a sigh. The file was thrown back to him with a huff.

“Boring. The father, ex-military, I believe, according to your paperwork. Had a penchant for keeping dangerous pets - as evidenced by the rather large cage in the back yard, half-hidden by vines. So he hasn’t kept anything in a while, or so he’d like you to believe. He worked on the KBR team, and was charged with ridding the base camps of dangerous pests, including the very rare saw scaled viper, highly poisonous and with no known cure for a bite. He brought one back after his tour was done. Probably kept in the room - or the walls. The schematic shows that the father’s room shares the wall with the guest bedroom. He released a hungry snake and recalled it after an hour or so with a few live rodents, hiding it back into the wall.”

The detective whirled, a smile on his face as he clapped his hands. “Now for the motive. Ex-military. His pension probably was near dry and he had another child to care about. The dead woman must have been draining his funds with her wedding. Extravagant, most likely, if her wedding band was covered in diamonds. With her dead, he would save money and be able to make more off of her life insurance.”

Trying to follow the rapid deductions the detective had just spewed at him, the detective inspector made a note to search the adjoining wall for a snake tank and looked up at the now beaming Sherlock Holmes. The man had finished his pacing, opting instead to perch on one of his chairs like a demented bird of prey.

“Case solved. Anything else? And please make it a bit tricker this time. That was too simple.” The man’s rich baritone almost seemed to chuckled as his hands came to rest under his chin again.

“Uh...ok. Sure.” At that point, his phone rang, causing him to jump and the detective to hiss at the shrill noise. He catalogued the reaction for later, before saying, “Lestrade.”

The voice of the Chief Inspector came over the line. “I’ve been informed that Sherlock Holmes is alive and in your office. Do I need to remind you that your job is at stake?”

“Uh...well, no, Chief Inspector.” He rubbed his suddenly throbbing temple with his free hand.

“Then show him out. Immediately. I will not have that...that **mad man** galavanting about this precinct like he owns the place.” 

“Understood, Sir.” His stomach had sunk to his toes. He needed the other man just as much as the other man obviously needed him. He snuck a quick glance towards the younger Holmes brother and saw a deep scowl etched onto his face.

“And, Lestrade, if I find him here again, you know where you’ll be?”

The phone was fiercely ripped from his hand. “Hey!”

“Shut-up, Gavin!” the other man hissed, a large hand covering the mouthpiece of the phone. He turned his coat-covered back to the grey-haired man and barked into the phone, “Chief Inspector. No, you listen to me you incompetent fool. Lestrade is your best detective. Threatening his job because of his use of my skills - which is something that your entire division should do anyway - is ridiculous and unfounded. I understand that you don’t enjoy being made out to be a bumbling fool, but it can’t be helped. You have been doing a rather deplorable job in my absence and I will be picking up your slack. I believe that I have been found innocent of any involvement in the Moriary case, and thus, you have no reason to not accept my consultation. Also, I’ve already solved the unsolvable mystery of the speckled band. Check the shared bedroom wall for a snake and arrest the father - Your welcome.”

The consulting detective slammed the receiver down into it’s cradle, his frustration at the system evident. “You shouldn’t have done that, mate,” Greg whispered, staring at the phone as if it would come to life and bite him.

“Geoff. When are you going to realize that I do exactly what I want, when I want? Your superior officer has no sway over me. Sure, he can lock me away, but Mycroft will get me out faster. I’m too valuable for him to ignore at the moment.” The maniacal smile, the one that looked like the cartoon Grinch that his daughters loved to watch at Christmas, had returned to the consulting detective’s face.

The phone rang again. “I suspect that it will be the Chief Inspector, probably with an apology and the promise of a pay raise. I’ll just take this stack with me, shall I?”

And with a swirl of his Belstaff and a large stack of cold cases gathered in his arms, the world’s only resurrected consulting detective vanished from his office. Picking up the phone, the detective inspector soon discovered that Sherlock was indeed right: the investigative team on site had found the snake and he was given a raise and a few more vacation days for helping to solve the case. Maybe he’d get to see his daughters this weekend. They could watch _How the Grinch Stole Christmas._


	15. Sherlock

The cold cases only took a week to solve, many of them were rather dull and straight forward. How Lestrade ( _Gunpowder - like John, aged leather, hazelnut. Pack_ ) had been unable to solve them, he had no idea. The man was usually a bit brighter than the last three years had shown. With a sigh, he sent a text to the detective inspector (SOLVED. WILL BRING FILES BY IN THE MORNING - SH) and set his phone down. The new moon had come and gone and he was getting antsy as his time drew nearer.

It didn’t help that John had yet to make a reappearance. Mrs. Hudson had been up and down the stairs, helping with the fussy Evelyn, who, for reasons unknown to the detective, seemed to be constantly crying. A couple of times, the disgruntled and obviously tired doctor had paused outside of his door before continuing on, much to Sherlock’s dismay.

With a soft growl, he pushed himself out of his chair and headed to the kitchen, throwing ingredients together for Beef Wellington - John’s favorite, as well as something with enough red meat to keep him happy. He doubled the recipe, just in case, his stomach rumbling.

While he’d never admit it, he enjoyed cooking. It was like experimenting, except that the end result was edible, something that had taken surprising precedence over the last year. The precise measurements were numbing, allowing his train of thought to wander the halls of his mind palace, reviewing everything that had happened the last few days. The cases were quickly shuffled to the back to be discarded and forgotten, they were rather dull anyway.

What he focused on was the fact that John was ignoring him. Why, he had yet to figure out. But it was bothering him immensely. _This dinner, that’ll do the trick. I didn’t return to London to be ignored by John Hamish Watson_. No, he was there to comfort, help, and protect the man and his child. They were Pack, after all.

A hour later, the timer on the oven dinged, shrill, startling the consulting detective from his thoughts. “Ahh,” he sighed, suddenly feeling chipper. He was going to see John, surprise him, and he would figure out why the man had been avoiding him. Deftly, he removed the steaming dish from the oven, slamming the door shut with his foot as he began to salivate, an awful side effect of his new canine nature. He was on the upside of the New Moon after all, gearing up for the next Full Moon two weeks away.

He exited the apartment, winding his way up the stairs, food held out in front of him like a banner. When he reached the door of 221C, his bravery faltered and he hesitated. The apartment sounded like a crime scene - while the crime was happening. Evelyn was shrieking bloody murder, John’s feet were running to and fro, an alarm was beeping incessantly, and something was burning. Foregoing knocking, as was common courtesy, he shifted the Beef Wellington to his left arm, balancing it precariously, and opened the door.

The sight that met his eyes and the sounds that assaulted his ears were hectic and extremely unexpected. John Watson, army doctor, was a man of discipline and order. His dwelling was a place of pure havoc and chaos. The small sitting room was strewn with burp clothes, flannels, blankets, rattles, and toys. He counted at least five dummies on the floor, a sixth was in the process of being spat out. Evelyn was in her father’s arms, sick down her front and all over his jumper. She was obviously distressed, as was John who had yet to notice anything but his fussy baby, including the man who was standing in his doorway, with a rather lovely dinner in his arms.

Swiftly, his Alpha instinct taking over, Sherlock strode into the wrecked flat. He set the still steaming dish onto John’s table and moved next to the oven. He switched off the offensive beeping, grateful to be rid of some of the racket, and opened the door. A thick cloud of black smoke rolled out of the oven, causing the detective to back away gagging on the awful stench.

“Seriously, John. What _were_ you cooking?” he asked, not the slightest bit curious, in an attempt to lighten the mood. It was so burnt that his ultra-sensitive nose couldn’t even sort out the original ingredients.

The other man continued to ignore him as he jostled the upset infant with his ridiculous bouncing and cooing and ‘shh’-ing. Cocking an eyebrow, the dark-haired man returned to the stove, pulling out a crispy, blackened something and shoving it into the garbage, dish and all. It was a cheap aluminum tray anyway. John could always purchase another. Tying the bag firmly, he strode through the apartment and opened the sitting room windows, freeing the acrid cloud of smoke and left, bringing the inedible dinner with him.

Grumbling to himself as he stalked down to the bins, the consulting detective was actually feeling rather pleased to have found his friend in a poor situation. His help would be viewed as invaluable and John would finally see that his childish game of ‘Avoid Sherlock’ was ridiculous. The bin lid slammed down with a resounding clang, causing the wolf to stop, ears ringing.

The night was cold, mostly due to the impossibly clear sky. The stars were blotted out by the lights of the city and the moon was invisible, barely more than a thin sliver after the New Moon last night. Closing his eyes, Sherlock inhaled deeply. Snow tomorrow, he thought. The air was filled with the promise of it.

He reentered the building, gently closing the door behind him. His sharp hearing picked up on the still fussy Evelyn three floors above him. Quickly, he bounded up the stairs two at a time, past his own flat and back into John’s. Not caring in the least what the other man said or did, he snatched the baby girl from the doctor’s arms.

Immediately, he nose was filled with her strange, new scent. _New baby smell and sick. Masking something else...wool. That’s John. Lavender from Mary. What else is it?...Grass. Pack._ She smelled of grass, never having touched the plant in her short life. How peculiar.

The little girl continued to cry with as equal, if not greater, lung power as she fussed in his unfamiliar arms. “Hello Evelyn,” he whispered. “Are we giving Daddy a hard time? Do you enjoy hurting Uncle Sherlock’s sensitive ears? I should have known that there would be a sadist in the family. After all, your Daddy likes adventure a little too much - an adrenaline junkie. His best friend is a high functioning sociopath - that’s me, in case that wasn’t clear. I never met your Mum, but knowing your Daddy, she was probably not quite right. Maybe an assassin or a fugitive or, ooh, a psychopath. That would be fun, yeah?”

As he talked, gibberish mostly, he undressed the child, removing the sick-stained onesie, and placed her in another that he found on the back of a rather shabby looking chair. A sniff confirmed that it was clean. Next, he swaddled her into a blanket, keeping her warm against the chill from the open window. As he worked, she quieted, lulled to sleep by his deep calming voice as it resonated from his chest, and his steady heartbeat, located just underneath her lightly haired head. “There,” he muttered. “That’s better.”

Turning, he found John, still in his dirty jumper, staring at him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked bluntly.

“Helping you,” Sherlock scoffed back. “You were clearly in need of it. Unless you were planning on spending your evening keeping the entire block awake along with burning down half of London. If that was the case, I am terribly sorry for ruining your plans.” He paused, rethinking his strategy. “If not, Evelyn is asleep, you need a change of jumper, and dinner is on the table. I’ll just put her down in her cot and be on my way.”

His stomach rumbled angrily at the thought of leaving without partaking in the meal that he had spent a couple of hours preparing and cooking. But, if John wanted him gone, he would go. Take-away wouldn’t be awful. Plus, with the extra income coming from the Yard (He had convinced the Chief Inspector that it would be wise to pay him for his invaluable services, especially if Lestrade got a raise), he could afford to eat out.

The army doctor didn’t move. His blue-grey eyes just openly stared at the taller man in disbelief. Sherlock, still holding Evelyn, didn’t move. He had strolled into the other man’s territory and taken his child. The wolf within him knew that it could end very badly. His newly acquired instincts set him on edge, prepared for a fight.

Instead, John sighed, running a hand through his disheveled, hair. “I guess I should be saying thank you,” he mumbled. “You’re being surprisingly helpful despite the fact that I have been a bit of a wanker of late.”

Sherlock blinked, dumbfounded by the response. “You’re welcome.” He paused, mulling over his next sentence in his mind before saying, “That’s what friends are for.”

He turned, feeling incredibly uncomfortable all of a sudden, as if John knew something was not the same as it had been, and headed down the short hallway to the nursery. _He knows. He has to know. I don’t know how he knows but he does. THAT’S why he’s been avoiding me. He doesn’t want to associate with an animal_.

“There we go, darling,” he whispered softly, putting the slumbering baby into her cot. “Please sleep for Daddy.”

His thoughts continued to race. _I should tell him, explain that nothing’s really changed. So I become a giant wolf under the full moon. I’m still me. I’m still Sherlock. I have to make him see that._

His feet took him back to the sitting room where his nose was greeted with the smell of the Beef Wellington. His stomach rumbled like thunder over the moor. Head down, he nearly bolted for the door.

“Sherlock.” The tenor of the new father’s voice cut through the mire of this thoughts. The detective looked at the shorter man, his eyes wide and nervous.

The army doctor was wearing a new jumper, some heinous plaid pattern covering the torso and sleeves. Sleeves that stopped at hands that were holding two plates of hot food. The sight caused the taller man to whine softly, saliva rushing into his mouth as his stomach growled audibly.

“Please,” John said quietly, “Stay for dinner. We - We need to talk.”

_____________________________________

The dinner was consumed quickly, the detective’s appetite clearing plate after plate of the beef. He could sense the eyes of the doctor staring at him and his oddly changed eating habits. The man never said anything, but the scrutiny through the meal was disconcerting.

Wiping his mouth almost daintily with a napkin, he fixed his gaze at the grey-blue eyes that pierced his very soul. “What would you like to discuss, John?” he intoned patiently.

The soldier sighed. “You’ve changed.” The statement was blunt, though it did not surprise the taller man. John was not one to beat around the bush. He nodded, agreeing with the shorter man. “I-I don’t know what that time...away did to you, but you are not the same Sherlock that I lived with three years ago. I will probably never understand. But, you have, oh, I don’t know, matured. You are taking care of yourself. You’re exercising, you’re cooking and eating, you’re not leaving dangerous chemicals lying around often and without being properly labeled. The flat is semi-clean. You put my daughter to bed after changing her. What _happened?!_ ”

The taller man bit his lips, fighting with the thought of revealing his secret before thinking the better of it. “I can’t tell you,” he said honestly, “It was life-changing. But, know that it was for you. Everything I did was to make you and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and, God knows, Mycroft, safe. None of you will be threatened by Moriarty or his web _ever_ again. Know that.”

The doctor nodded knowingly, so the detective continued. “I want you to know that I respect your decision to do whatever you would like regarding our friendship, however, I would like to remain friends. You are welcome anytime and I will be there for you when you need me. Do not hesitate to ask.”

“I don’t intend to,” the shorter man said, eyes sparkling in the low-hanging table light. “I-I have miss you, Sherlock. It’s been a difficult week, alone in this flat with a colicky baby and no parenting skills. I just,” he sighed. “I just need to get away sometimes. But I can’t, not with Evelyn.”

“Why can’t you get Mrs. Hudson to watch her? We could go to Scotland Yard tomorrow. They owe me another batch of cold cases, though a good, fresh murder would be delightful.” He grinned devilishly, knowing that the man would say yes.

Swiftly, he pushed away from the table and headed for the door. “I will meet you downstairs at ten then, shall I?”

He paused at the opened door, still smiling at the gaping mouth of John Watson. “Oh, don’t give me that look, John,” he drawled, “It’ll be just like old times!”

As he clattered down the stairs, the detective heard the doctor whisper, “That’s what I’m worried about.”


	16. John

As he stared at the wood of the door that the eccentric detective had just exited from, he couldn’t help but question what had just happened. His child, upset beyond reason, had calmed for the supposed sociopath. Like he was her father, not the frazzled man who had brought her home, who had been involved in part of her very creation. _What does that infuriating genius ex-drug addict have that he didn’t have?_ the doctor wondered, scratching his head and ruffling the greying hair. Whatever had changed the detective, it would not be like ‘old times.’

He had responsibilities. He wasn’t taking care of an adult man who could function alright on his own. He had a steady, reliable job, a flat that he paid rent on, bills to pay. A daughter to care for. Mrs. Hudson was not going to be so enraptured with Evelyn for so long that she was going to take care of her all day for free. No, a daycare would have to be found and baby supplies, from nappies to dummies to clothes would need to be purchased regularly. Another expense to add to his already tight budget thanks to the hospital bills.

He sighed, clearing the dishes and scrubbing them in the sink, collecting his thoughts. Sherlock was hiding something - something that had effected him deeply during his time away. While he understood that he had rejected the taller man first, he couldn’t help but wonder what had brought about this change and if Sherlock was ever going to confide it in him in the future or if it would eventually fade into the background, lost in the rooms of the dark-haired man’s mind palace. _But what does it mean for me? For our friendship? For Evelyn? Sherlock wouldn’t put us in harms way, right?_ But then again, knowing the consulting detective, he would. His lack of regard for others was what had lead him to his labelling as a high functioning sociopath. Sherlock Holmes cared for no one but himself and what was best for him. Right now, it included himself and Evelyn, but how long would that last? How long until the other man coerced another unwitting man into being his flatmate? Another doctor to bring along to cases, perhaps, or someone who would blog about his miraculous achievements.

He sat with a soft huff. What if he, John Watson, did not want things to go back to the way they had been? What if he just wanted Mary back? With Sherlock living downstairs and with Mrs. Hudson and her tea, it was difficult to think that life hadn’t nearly gone back to the way it had been before that dreadful day - the day he thought his own life would end. The day he Fell.

“God, Sherlock,” he muttered, rubbing his hands long his trousers, reveling in the friction, “What are you doing here and what are you hiding?” Vowing to figure it out in the morning, hopefully after a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep, the army doctor retired to his cold bed, vehemently wishing for his wife to be laying beside him instead of the vast expanse of mattress. As the dark silence of the night consumed him, he thought of one thing: He jumped for me. If that is not love, what else is?

______________________________________________

The months blended together after that initial reconciliation. Sherlock dragged him along to crime scenes, as promised, making the Army Doctor forget about the last three years. They truly seemed to belong to someone else’s life. But now, running about the streets of London behind the great coat of the world’s greatest detective, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

The cases were, in Sherlock’s words, generally disappointing. There was rarely a case that lasted the detective more than a day or two. It was astounding to watch the man work again. He must have forgotten some of the younger Holmes’ deductive powers during those three years that he had lived another man’s life because the taller man seemed even more brilliant than before, able to deduce anything from a scene based on his first impressions. More often than not, the dark haired man would turn to Lestrade and tell them who the killer was and why, everything from the tiniest particle of hair under a nail to a lingering scent of perfume jumping out at him. He still took each crime scene seriously, pausing at the door to the building and again at the room, his nostrils flaring briefly. The doctor was unsure if he had always done that or if it was something that he had picked up while on the run. He couldn’t remember.

Eventually, Dr. John Watson reentered the work force at St. Bart’s, leaving his daughter in the care of his landlady most days. Sherlock had offered to take Evelyn as well, having surprisingly become taken with the child. He had agreed reluctantly only to regret his decision later when he had received a call at work from a rather concerned Lestrade asking him why the consulting detective had his baby strapped to his chest in a Baby Bjorn at a rather gristly murder scene. Furious, the blonde man insisted that his child not be allowed at murders until she had reached the double digits, to which Sherlock had informed him that Evelyn would therefore grow up to be a rather dull child.

That shouting match had occurred the night before Sherlock made his monthly trip to Baskerville for his top secret government project. He had yet to reveal anything about it, which made John incredibly nervous. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to the detective keeping things from him, in fact, his trip through the Reichenbach Fall had proven that. No, he was just concerned that whatever this experiment was that required Sherlock to disappear for a day or two each month had to do with the detective himself. The experiment was a cover for something else entirely, and, while Mycroft was supposedly involved, John had a lingering feeling that the recovered drug addict might not be so recovered after all. Did he really want that around his child?

Every time he had made up his mind to confront the consulting detective about it, he had been unable to do so. The man just seemed so thrilled to be back in London, in 221B, that he couldn’t turn him away. The way his face would soften at the slightest sound from Evelyn, and later as she would toddle over to him, her pudgy legs carrying her through the apartment and into his waiting arms, it was an emotion that John had never thought the younger man capable of. Sherlock Holmes _loved_ his Evelyn. He loved her blue eyes and blonde hair and how she looked at him, her rosy cheeks flushed, when he would walk into the door. It was obvious that she loved him back and it hurt a bit, knowing that he was her father who fed her and clothed her and changed her and all the dark-haired man had to do was come striding through the door and all her ills would be cured.

When Evelyn started babbling, she began to label everything. Her first words, much to the soldier’s pride had been ‘Dada’ and ‘ball,’ in that order, with a strange garbled ‘Shhhhock’ to mean Sherlock and a ‘Na’ to mean Mrs. Hudson. The landlady was over the moon, claiming that she had always wanted grandchildren, but the opportunity had never presented itself. She automatically became an honorary grandmother to the toddler and spoiled her rotten because of it. Molly also doted upon the little girl as she shot heated glances at her older fiancé. The doctor was certain that it would only be a matter of time before the sound of Holmes’ children filled the halls of 221 along with those of his beloved daughter. Mycroft might come off as an aloof, uncaring man, but the mortuary assistant knew how to get him to love.

Life on Baker Street had fallen into a routine, something that John had never conceived to be possible when he had moved in with Sherlock all those years ago. It brought him comfort, knowing that life, even for the consulting detective, could be predictable. He should also have known that it would not remain that way.


	17. Sherlock

He chuckled as he headed down Baker Street, tossing a small, brightly colored package from hand to hand. Today was little Evelyn’s third birthday. It was a difficult day for John, the reminder of how he had lost Mary so suddenly and had gained a daughter who looked just like his late wife. His little angel was a bright spot in all of their lives and today was a celebration of that light. He had found the perfect gift for the energetic little being in one of the shops. It was a stuffed puppy, dark brown and shaggy, just like him revealed under the light of the full moon, a light blue ribbon tied around its neck. He knew that she’d like it, after all, she had been begging John for a ‘doggie’ for weeks.

The knocker, properly askew under his lithe fingers, gave way with a gentle push, the door swinging open soundlessly on it’s well-oiled hinges. He paused, confused as to why the door was unlocked. Mrs. Hudson usually left the door locked whether she was at home or not. John was supposedly at work at St. Bart’s, his child looked after by the landlady today as he had had an appointment with Lestrade about a rather straightforward murder and had been informed that a crime scene was no place for a child. He scoffed at the idea, but since he was now on the payroll, he had obeyed the Chief Inspector’s orders.

Pausing, the werewolf examined the door jam, running his fingers along the splintered wood. _Forced_. He stepped in quietly, closing the door behind him with a soft click, scenting the air. A fresh, strange scent, a pungent aroma of curried chicken mixed with stale body odor and something cloyingly familiar that he couldn’t quite place tickled his flared nostrils. Who ever had broken in had been nervous and had been about two hours gone. _Two hours is a long time_.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he called, his eyes roving about the foyer looking for anything out of place. “JOHN?!”

“Upstairs!” came a faint reply from the elderly woman. Fear rose in his chest, the wolf scrambling within him as he took the steps two at a time, his feet thundering in his ears in time with his heartbeat. He swung around the banister, past 221B and up through to the next flight, seeing the door of his best friend’s flat open, the dull, cloudy light filtering into the dimly lit hallway. As he reached the third story landing, he noticed the door jam of 221C was also splintered, little flakes of wood littered the hallway and the doorway.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he asked, a hand on the worn wood of the door. The woman was clutching a burp cloth to her chest as a frazzled looking John Watson was rushing about his flat, his eyes wide and crazed. “John?” he murmured, stepping in through the door, the dog he had wrapped forgotten as it hit the floor.

The army doctor turned to him, his face distraught. “SHE’S GONE, SHERLOCK!” he yelled, tears streaming down his ruddy face. “ _She’s gone. They’ve taken her._ ” He rushed into his kitchen and threw open a drawer, flinging silverware about until he finally grasped the comforting weight of his Sig in his hand. Mrs. Hudson screamed at the reveal and the furious expression on the usually stern but kind face of the soldier.

“John,” the detective’s deep voice intoned, his multi-colored eyes stuck on the firearm in his ex-flatmate’s hand, the man’s fear, anger, confusion rolling of him in waves and assaulting his olfactory sense. “Let’s not make hasty decisions.”

The shorter man stormed up to him, the gun waving about too energetically for the wolf’s liking. He nervously took a step back as the blonde said darkly, “I’m going to find those sons of bitches, Sherlock, I swear. And then I’ll kill them. Every. Last. One.”

He laid one of his large hands on the doctor’s shoulders. “John.” The man tried to push past him but he held firm. “John. Listen to me.” The blue gaze of the other man met his own. “Go to Lestrade. Get him and his force to help you. I’ll go to Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson -” he fixed his gaze on to the startled and shaking older woman, “You will remain here in case, for some reason, Evelyn has found her own way back home.” He turned back to the distraught father. “Bring your gun but please, John, go to Lestrade for me. Please.”

The shorter man nodded once before heading out into the street, the front door slamming behind him. Sherlock moved to the front window and watched the doctor hail a cab and climb in, asking for ‘Scotland Yard.’ He turned to the older woman. “Mrs. Hudson,” he asked quietly. “What happened, and do be quick about it.”

The woman sat in one of John’s worn chairs with a shudder. “I nipped out for a bit, just to Speedy’s for some sugar. The baby was down, napping. I don’t even know how long she’s been gone, Sherlock. I just thought she was sleeping until John came back early, about twenty minutes ago when he came upstairs and started yelling about her being gone. This is all my fault! Oh...” The woman collapsed into a fit of sobbing, her entire body shaking with it.

Torn between human and lupine emotion, the man opted to be rational. Mrs. Hudson would be fine. Evelyn would not be if he waited much longer. “I need to call Mycroft. He’ll be over shortly.”

Leaving the elderly woman in his companion’s flat, he swept down the stairs and into the comfort of his own apartment. He shut the door, his fingers flying over the keys of his mobile.

EVELYN WATSON MISSING. SUSPECT KIDNAPPED. CHECK CCTV. NEED YOU TO LET ME OUT - SH

He pulled off his shoes by the door, masking his movements to the only other occupant of the building, and carried them into his bedroom. He closed the door but not firmly, knowing that he’d have to be able to nose it open in a few minutes. Stripping, he folded his clothing and stuffed it into the back of his closet. His charade as human needed to be maintained and it would not do for anyone to recognize the clothing that he had been wearing at day. The Belstaff was hung on the last hangar, another coat slung over it, carefully concealing his signature piece of clothing from the prying eyes of the world.

Inhaling deeply, he pulled himself into the shift, kneeling on the cold, hard wood of his bedroom floor, inwardly cursing the lunar cycle. It was the day of the full moon, making it his shorter, less painful transitionary day, though he had never shifted this early, usually waiting for the Goddess to call his other form forth. His bones cracked, splintering and reforming, rotating about in different, shifting sockets to create new, yet familiar joints. He gritted his lengthening teeth, releasing a soft, sharp growl that became less human as the process wore on rapidly. He closed his eyes, willing himself to breath as he felt his center of gravity shift, his neck lengthening and his tail growing in opposite directions. His eyes slid to the sides of his skull, pulled apart by the outward thrust of his muzzle that contained his wicked teeth. His fur erupted along with his claws, obscuring the pale skin of the man with the trappings of the wolf.

Panting at the effort, the consulting detective lifted his heavy head with a gentle shake, ruffling the dark brown curls that covered his body. With a deep stretch to work out the kinks, he refocused, drawn to the scents about him, sniffing out first little Evelyn and then the kidnapper.

The front door of his flat hindered the scent a bit, the kidnapper was obviously not interested in him. Impatiently, he snuffled along the gap under the door, taking in as much of the mingled scent of the stranger and the little girl as he could from within his sitting room. _Hurry, Mycroft_ , he chanted, his excess energy spilling over as he trotted to and fro, pacing about in front of his door.

A car crunched on the asphalt outside his window and a pair of fine, Italian leather shoes stepped out, joined by the click of the tip of an umbrella. _Mycroft._ He resisted the urge to bark, alerting the older man to his impatience, instead moving to stand just inside the door to slip out at his first chance.

Mycroft’s heavy footsteps, accompanied by his cloyingly sweet scent, made their way up the stairs, the wood creaking and groaning slightly under his weight. Shifting from paw to paw, the detective readied himself to spring out into the hallway beyond. The footsteps drew nearer, a hand clutched the doorknob, turning it with a soft squeal and the door inched open.

Surging, the werewolf bolted for freedom, only to run headlong into the very solid, well-dressed leg of the British Government. Backtracking slightly as he shook his head to rid it of the sharp pain at the end of his nose, he growled low. _What’s the meaning of this Mycroft?_

The older man quickly slid into the flat and shut to door behind him with a solid click. Sherlock did not refrain this time. He yipped his furious and urgent unhappiness at the other man, his sharp teeth displayed beneath pulled back lips. “This is for your own good, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed commandingly as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick leather strap, a set of tags dangling at one end. The collar.

The wolf backed away quickly until his rump collided with the wall opposite, shaking his head vigorously, whining his complaint. Mycroft advanced slowly, hands raised in peace, continuing to talk, low and rational. “You can’t run around London without this. I trust you. I know you won’t do anything rash, but without the tags, someone will spot you and report a missing wolf to the zoo. This way, if you’re caught, you will end up back at Molly’s apartment, not in some pound or worse, dead.”

As much as the detective hated to admit, the other man was being rather intelligent about this. As much as he loathed the collar and what it represented ( _Domestication. Ownership. Tame. Pet._ ), Mycroft had a point. Unlike his retreat in Baskerville, where the workers had gotten used to the presence of a large wolf-like dog running about the facility when the British Government and his fiancée visited, London would immediately view him as a stray or as an escapee from the zoo. The collar would protect him, keep his true identity a secret, and keep him from becoming the specimen in someone else’s experiments instead of his own.

He took a step forward, lowering his head and pitching his ears forward in submission, his tail hanging limp behind him. “Come now,” Mycroft said in an attempt to cheer the younger man up as he knelt and fastened the heavy leather about his broad, thick neck, “I’ll take it off as soon as you get that little angel back to her father. Promise. Then we’ll head out to Baskerville, as planned.”

He stood, one of his knees crunching in his old age, and moved to open the door again, striding purposefully across the flat. The wolf followed hot on his heels, his nose already pressed to the hard wood, picking up traces of Evelyn and her kidnapper. The government employee turned, hand still on the doorknob, and looked down at the antsy wolf. “CCTV cameras revealed a black SUV, London plates, heading east towards the factory district,” he murmured, concern and love flooding his scent, “Please be careful, Sherlock. Get her back here safely.”

He nodded once and snuffled the other man’s hand to show his appreciation for his concern before breezing past him into the hallway and bounding down the stairs, his claws skittering a bit on the wood, and launched himself off the bottom step and out the front door. His nose traversed the sidewalk, following the mingled scent of curry and grass to the end of the street where it ended abruptly. _The SUV_ , he recollected, realizing that he would no longer be able to rely on his overly-keen nose. He glanced up at the cloudless December sky. _14:37pm. Approximately one hour and twenty-eight minutes to sundown, two hours and fifty-two minutes to moonrise. East - Crawford Street._

He set off at a dead sprint, his energy surging from his rather dull and exercise-less day of deducing. Humans jumped out of his way, exclaiming at the monstrosity that was rushing by, a flurry of dark brown curls on four legs. His long strides, when not dodging people and their things, ate up the ground. _Why do humans have so many things?_ He ducked under a moving box, scaring the two burly moving men who promptly dropped the box after he passed with a loud exclamatory curse. He ignored them and plowed on, running as fast as his body allowed him, his muscles coiling and springing with the tension that lingered there. He loved the feeling, the use of all his muscles at once, pulling and pushing his way through the streets of London to the outskirts of the bustling city and the factory district.

He skidded to a stop, his claws coming in contact with gravel and packed dirt instead of cement and asphalt. Sunset was close and travel with a small child would be difficult as the evening neared. He needed to find Evelyn and fast. It had been over three hours since her kidnapping and he knew that she must be terrified.

Sniffing, the wolf spun about, attempting to rediscover the scent that accompanied the small child and her much larger kidnapper. His keen nose flared, taking the industrial smells in and sorting through them quickly, his paws traversing the ground and weaving in and out of brick buildings, sneezing with the contaminants that drifted earthward from the belching smokestacks.

His sharp eyes, sharpened by the ever dimming light, spotted the black SUV before he caught traces of grass clippings and curry joined with gun powder. _Of course he has a weapon_ , Sherlock sighed, slinking to shadows before skirting up to the car, inhaling the mingled scent that he had chased across a city. _Evelyn. Pack. Must protect Pack._

A cursory glance of the vehicle revealed that it had been empty for hours. The scent became stronger as he slunk to the door of the warehouse, thankful that it was slightly ajar, allowing him to slip inside into the semidarkness.


	18. Sherlock and John

The darkness gave way to a stark, harsh florescent light, flung on with a resounding and echoing clack followed by the angry buzzing of the bulbs. Shocked, the wolf, who yelped, blinking rapidly to clear his gaze while backing towards what he thought was the door. His rump collided solidly with a pair of denim-clad legs.

“Now where are _you_ going,” a smoky baritone asked, darkly. A hand closed around the leather of the collar, yanking it up into his windpipe with the faint clinking of tags. Sherlock choked, struggling against the surprising strength of the arm that held him, yanking his heavy, wedge-shaped head every which way. “Oh, no you don’t.” The statement was followed by a strong upward yank, literally forcing his tongue out of his mouth. His forepaws were off the polished concrete floor of the warehouse, flailing about on the empty air as his powerful back legs attempted to back pedal against the force that was pulling him.

A solid shove pushed him away from the incredibly strong man, throwing his once invincible body against the unforgiving grey concrete with a sharp yelp. He stayed down, observing the lean body that had just manhandled him. _Young, 33 or 34. Tall, six foot two. Thin, leanly muscled with large hands and deft fingers. Strong jaw and cheek bones, thin lips. Blue eyes over straight nose under wavy auburn hair. Well-dressed in business casual: blue button down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tucked into slim, fitted jeans. Smells of forest, Earl Grey, and dusty tomes. And something else, something I can’t place._ He growled softly, ears flattened against his head, revealing his teeth, pointed and white, to the man that threatened him.

“Now, now Mr. Holmes,” the younger man chided, waggling a finger down at him. “That is not going to get Dr. Watson’s daughter back. After all, it is you I want, not some child. But, I knew that if she disappeared, you would come for her. And you did. Like a predictable _pet_.” The last syllable was spat at him in distaste.

Sherlock stopped his rumbling, staring intensely at the strange man, cocking his head slightly. _How does he know who I am? What I am? It’s obviously why he wants me, but how?_ His thoughts raced. If his secret was revealed, then there was only one option. He gathered his legs beneath him and prepared to spring. The man had to die.

“NO!” the man shouted, his voice echoing around the room, giving the wolf pause. The other man continued, his voice dropping dangerously low, so that it competed with the hum of the lights and the ringing of his ears. “You attack me and you are breaking your own rules. You vowed to never bite another, give them the hand you’ve been given. You are not a killer, Mr. Holmes, you and I both know it.” The man smirked maliciously. “You also wanted to keep your circle closed. Too bad you forgot one.Very. Important. Thing.” He chuckled. “ _The other one_.”

Sherlock’s ears pricked up along with his head. The man read his question, still chuckling as he held up his hands. “Not me.” He pointed to a far corner. “Him.”

The detective swiveled his head sharply, nostrils flaring to view a grey-haired man with a feral look on his face, his human teeth pulled back in a snarl as his odd, golden eyes glinted malevolently. In his arms was clasped a very confused Evelyn, her thumb rapidly moving within her mouth nervously. He growled at the man that had given him this curse. This blessing. This double-edged sword. And now he held the most precious little girl in the world mere minutes before moonrise.

He pulled his lips back at the man, his voice silently begging to be released as he worried, his thoughts flitting around his head. He was rooted to the spot with his indecision.

“Well, this is a conundrum, isn’t it?” The other man was talking again. His right ear swiveled, listening while his attention remained on the other wolf. “So, Mr. Holmes. Here is our deal - which you will take. There is no getting out of it.” He paused, most likely for the overrated dramatic effect of his villainy, and then continued in a low, dangerous voice. “I will give you the child, she is nothing to me. In turn, know that I am coming for you. You and your family owe me, Mr. Holmes. They pulled my world down around me, leaving me with nothing. Nothing. You’ve gotten a taste of what I am capable, what I have at my fingertips. It’s coming for you, Mr. Holmes.”

The lights flicked off, swamping the building again into darkness. His sharp ears heard the retreat of footsteps and registered the slamming of one door as well as the faint cry of a child, left alone in the crushing darkness. Taking the opportunity to use his nose, the detective sprang into action, launching his lithe body across the space, grappling for purchase on the smooth surface. _Grass. Wool. Lavender. Wax-crayons. Evelyn. Pack_. He didn’t care where the other two men where, he didn’t care about the threats that had just been given to him and those he loved, he just had to reach Evelyn before the worst happened.

When he reached the far corner, skidding into the wall, unable to stop on the polish floor, the toddler was alone and she had begun to cry. His heart broke at her distress. He slowly crawled towards her on his stomach, his head low, his ears back though his tail wagged in an attempt to show that he was a friend, that he wanted to comfort her, bring her home to her father and her birthday party. He stopped short, within her reach but not forcing her to accept him, not after what she had gone through.

A tentative hand reach out and touched his cool, wet nose, making him sneeze and causing the little girl to giggle with delight, her hand stroking his velvety cheek. Her shy streak forgotten, she allowed him to wrap his body around her, warming her and comforting her. She snuggled into his fur, wrapping her fingers through the curls, pulling them a bit, but he didn’t complain. She needed him and that need stirred his Alpha protection instincts to no end.

About ten minutes after moonrise, he heard the crunch of tires and the blare of sirens. The calvary had arrived. Evelyn had fallen asleep against his side, able to relax despite the darkness, the terror of being taken and held captive, all on her birthday. Slamming doors and footsteps followed, shouts of “Clear!” split the air.

Unable to call out, Sherlock gave a soft bark, the child stirring against his side but not waking. The unmistakeable click of Mycroft’s umbrella sounded on the polished cement accompanied by a wandering torch light. He blinked against it’s sudden brightness, allowing his vision to adjust to the abrupt shift, snuggling closer to the little girl.

His brother’s voice cut through the silence, echoing about the vast chamber. “I apologize for what is going to happen next, Brother.” He turned away slightly, towards the door and called, “In here!”

Rushing footsteps and bouncing torch beams entered the warehouse. “Evelyn?!” John Watson’s desperate voice called out. “Mycroft, where is my baby girl?!” His worry obscured his regular, homey scent. Sherlock whined in response, nuzzling the little blond head that rested against his flank into wakefulness.

“Daddy?” she asked sleepily, blinking her beautiful blue eyes at the lights.

Hurried footsteps and a relieved “Evelyn” had the girl’s head turning about in the dark, one hand reaching out for her father while the other wound deeper into the curls of his abdomen.

The wolf within him rose up as the lights circled him, wary and terrified. He growled, tightening around the child instinctively. “Whoa,” breathed Lestrade’s voice. “Down doggie.” Several safeties clicked off, reverberating around the space.

“Don’t,” Mycroft said sharply. “That’s my dog. See his license? Willie, heel.” He snapped his fingers, pointing it down at his side. Sherlock huffed, disgruntled and not at all pleased, and rolled his eyes but made to play the part of the obedient house pet.

“NO!” Evelyn shrieked, clinging tighter to his side. He paused, the yanking on his fur too sharp to ignore, halfway to standing. He sat instead, looking at his brother as well as flicking to the drawn weapons.

“Put those away!” John said, stepping into the lights and kneeling, opening his arms to his precious child, the reminder of his wife. The little girl instantly flew from his side and into her father’s arms. “I love you Evelyn, Darling. So much. This is never going to happen again.” His arms encircled her small body, one hand pressing her blonde head into his shoulder as he kissed her chubby cheek, tears rushing down his face. His grey eyes flickered to the strange eyes, so familiar yet so ethereal, and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Willie,” came Mycroft’s sharp, older brother/head of the British Government voice. Growling softly, _I despise you right now_ , he padded to his older sibling’s side and sat with a huff, displeased.

___________________________________________

The caravan of squad cars along with the sleek, black sedan of the British Government pulled up to 221 Baker Street to a very anxious Molly Hooper and an utterly bereft Mrs. Hudson. The women instantly swamped the father and the little girl into their arms. Sherlock hopped out of the car, followed by Mycroft, his claws clicking on the asphalt. While he missed the feeling of grass and stone beneath his feet that usually accompanied his jaunts under the full moon, he did not regret his decision to help his friend reunite with his beloved child. Of course, he loved the little girl as if she were his own, making his decision to find her and protect her all the more instinctual.

The detective wound his way through the crowd, emotionally exhausted, his muscles pulling from his lengthy all-out run through London and the abuse from the mysterious kidnapper. He just wanted to retire to his room and sleep off the rest of this moon for the first time in his brief second life as a werewolf.

Fate, it seemed, had a very different plan, however, as a small hand reached down from her father’s arms and touched his head lightly. He stopped, looking up at the girl with a wolfish grin, his pink tongue licking her fingers.

“Daddy?” she asked, eyes alight, “Can we keep him?”

Immediately, much to the detective’s relief, Molly stepped in. “Evelyn, Honey, as much as I know Sher-Willie likes you, I would get really sad and lonely without him at home with me. Especially when Uncle Mycroft is away on business. That’s why we adopted him.” She smiled kindly as the toddler’s face fell. “But I’m sure, if you ask politely, Willie would love to come visit you any time.”

“Can he stay tonight?” the little girl asked, her face half hidden by her father’s shoulder. “Scare the mean men away.”

“Sure, Darling,” Mycroft replied. “Leave him in Sherlock’s apartment tomorrow morning, John. I’ll be by to pick him up later. Now, I have some business to take care of, if you’ll excuse me.” With a jaunty tip of his umbrella, the man stepped back into the interior of his town car and drove away.

“Where is Sherlock, by the way?” the army doctor wondered aloud. Molly’s eyes flickered to the giant wolf that was sitting right beside the greying man who had just spoken.

“Uh...” she hesitated, watching the consulting detective’s eyes bulge slightly, eyebrow muscle cocking. _Get it together, Molly. Lie through omission. Where am I supposed to be right now?_

Thankfully, the woman caught on and quickly stated, “He had to be in Baskerville this evening. As soon as he heard that Evelyn was found, he was on his way there. He’ll be back in the morning with Mycroft.”

“Hmm,” the soldier hummed contemplatively. “That’s odd of him to miss a crime. He’s usually the first one at the scene.” 

“Well,” Molly practically stammered, “His work for the government, unfortunately, must come first and there was no other time he could perform the necessary work besides tonight.”

“Oh well,” John said, shrugging it off and jostling his daughter slightly. “He’ll be a complete arse when he learns about this one, won’t he?” He smiled broadly. “I believe we have some cake and presents for a certain little angel, am I right?” 

“YES!” the new three year old shrieked delighted at the prospect of goodies just for her. The father and child made their way into 221 Baker Street, the rest of their friends and adopted family trailing behind.

_______________________________________

The guests had left over an hour ago, his precious, beautiful Evelyn was long a bed, which left him alone in his small flat, giving him plenty of time for his favorite pastime - watching his daughter sleep. Tonight, she was curled under her warm, pink comforter, her equally pink flowered flannel nightgown matching the sheets and walls. Her arms clutched the gift given to her by the missing detective, a small replica of the larger dog that lay beside her, it’s body wrapped around her small frame. It’s large head rested on it’s massive paws, making the doctor wonder, not for the first time, what kind of dog it was exactly. Willie seemed to be too intelligent and too large to be something that Molly and Mycroft would have found at the pound, and yet, that was their story. The most unsettling features of the beast flicked towards him. Those eyes, so human, swirled with heterochromia, blinked at him from the dimness before closing again with an exhausted sigh. Those eyes were so out of place in that face. John had contemplated why all evening. Where would he had seen those orbs before? Then it finally struck him as he gently closed his daughter’s door to a slim crack. _They were the eyes of Sherlock Holmes_.


	19. Mycroft

“Repeat that again for me,” he intoned, trying to remain calm as his younger sibling sat before him, hands steepled beneath his chin, his eyes staring intensely back at him, the intensity masking his fear. The encounter he had had the previous evening had clearly frightened him and upset his sense of security.

Sherlock launched into his account again, his eyes unblinking, his focus like a laser point. Precisely calculated and rather unsettling. “The young man - he seemed so familiar, I don’t know why - he said that this...condition that I have contracted was deliberate. He means to ruin our family, not me specifically but he plans to use me to do that.”

The statesman shifted, crossing his long legs as he too, steepled his hands. “His exact words, Sherlock. Don’t omit anything.”

The consulting detective rolled his eyes and stood, pacing the length of his sitting room. “I arrived and was stunned by the lights that were turned on suddenly - fluorescents, new bulbs from the buzz of the bulbs and the rapidity at which they turned on - so I backed up into a pair of rather long legs. He said, ‘Now where are you going?’ and then I was grabbed by that goddamned collar - Yes, yes, I know and it was a good idea - until I was practically strangled by it - and dragged me to the middle of the warehouse as if I weighed nothing. Nothing, Mycroft. We both know that I weigh more that way than I do this way, like I’m somehow more massive. Anyway, when he threw me to the floor, I got a good look at him: Six foot two, thin with strong chin and cheekbones, straight nose, auburn hair, blue eyes, thin lips, thirty-three or thirty-four years of age. He smelt of the forest, Earl Grey tea, and old books and something else that I can’t place, something that I have most definitely smelt before. I growled at him and he threatened me saying, ‘That is not going to get Dr. Watson’s daughter back.’ Then he said that he wanted me, not ‘some child,’ and that he knew that if he took her, I’d come looking for her.” The younger man turned violently, spitting, “‘Like a predictable pet’.”

Sherlock cocked his head towards him, a feral gleam in his multi-colored eyes. “So I made the decision to kill him, to which he quickly caught on to. So he convinced me otherwise saying, ‘You attack me and you are breaking your own rules. You vowed to never bite another, give them the hand you’ve been given. You also wanted to keep your circle closed. Too bad you forgot one very important thing - the other one.’ He obviously meant the other wolf, the one that bit me. I thought that it was him, and something about my body language must have given away my thought process, because he responded with ‘No. Him.’ He pointed across the warehouse to an older, grey-haired man. Mid-fifties, I’d guess. His face was obscured by Evelyn, but his eyes are golden-brown, startlingly wolf-like. He had a five o’clock shadow and was trembling - the Moon was so close, he was barely holding it together. He was five foot nine, not overly tall, but stocky. Anyway, he was holding Evelyn, so I was more focused on getting her away from him safely than anything else at that point.

“However, the younger man said one more thing before he shut the lights down again. He said, ‘Well, this is a conundrum, isn’t it? So, Mr. Holmes. Here is our deal - which you will take. There is no getting out of it. I will give you the child, she is nothing to me. In turn, know that I am coming for you. You and your family owe me, Mr. Holmes. They pulled my world down around me, leaving me with nothing. _Nothing_. You’ve gotten a taste of what I am capable, what I have at my fingertips. It’s coming for you, Mr. Holmes’.”

The dark-haired man stopped his pacing, is pent up energy rolling off him in waves that even he, a mere mortal, could feel. His younger sibling’s unemotional mask had slipped, his distress was showing. He no longer looked like the confident sociopath he claimed to be. No, he looked like a frightened child. “I never wanted any of this Mycroft,” he whispered, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides uselessly.

“No one wanted any of this Little Brother,” he said levelly, rising to stand, his brain racing. “But this exists anyway.” He turned his back on the younger man, aware of how he was hurting. If Sherlock needed comfort, he wasn’t going to be getting anything from him. That was the bargain they had struck. Emotion - _sentiment_ \- was weakness.

Grabbing his umbrella, he paused in the doorway. “I’ll be in touch.”

With that, he was down the steps and out the front door. Sliding into the comfort of his town car, he intoned, “Home.” The car pulled away from the curb and into the flow of traffic, allowing him time to think.

 _Young man, younger than Sherlock by five years with distinct features. Features that he shared with some people that he knew very well. He was knowledgable - too knowledgable about werewolves. In fact, he had charged the one wolf to attack and ultimately change Sherlock. That meant that he knew about top secret government plans, or - OR he had been planning this for some time. Sherlock was his first target. His movements were the one’s being tracked. And if his movements were being tracked, who else? Himself - obviously. Mother and Father? Molly? John Watson? Either way, it was important that this man’s informants were stopped._ _His flow of information silenced._

_But what did he have against the Holmes family? He and his brother had made many enemies, true, but none of them looked like Sherlock’s description of the young man. And how had he come into contact with the wolves - there had to be more now, truly. Probably a whole pack, or more - multiple packs worldwide._

_Sherlock was alone. And now someone else knew his greatest secret. The questions was: When would he make his next move and, almost more importantly, against whom?_

The black car pulled to the curb outside of the small residence that he shared with Molly while she was working at St. Bart’s. It was just around the corner, convenient for her, even though it was truly shabby. He had brought in modern conveniences, no need to live like animals, but he knew that Molly adored the little flat just the way it was.

Pulling out his mobile, he deftly punched in a series of numbers, his other hand fiddling with his keys and unlocking his front door. A nondescript male voice picked up after the first ring. “Triple the security,” he intoned. “On everyone, yes, except the usual. He can care for himself.” Of that he was certain. The instincts of the wolf would keep him from allowing anything to stand in his way.

Hanging up on the other man, he opened his door and closed it firmly behind him with a solid click. He slid the deadbolt home again, knowing that Molly would be back the following day. She was where his younger sibling was supposed to have been the previous evening, continuing gathering data about the strange condition he bore even without him there. In fact, that was something that he was going to do right now. Something that he should have done a long time ago.

Digging deeply into his jacket pockets, he extracted another, less used phone. Dialing a familiar but rather unused number, he sighed. The mobile rang and rang, causing him to bite his lips in frustration, taking the device away from his ear. Before he could hang up, however, he heard a faint, “Hello?”

Quickly replacing the phone to his ear, he said, in as cheerful a tone as he could muster, “Hello Mummy, it’s Mycroft.”

“OH, MYCY!” his mother said shrilly, yelling out the next statement, “TIMOTHY! IT’S MYCY!” She took a deep breath before speaking more quietly into the receiver. “Your father’s gone to get the other line. How have you been, my darling?”

He rolled his eyes, dropping into an antique armchair that he had insisted on bringing into his fiancee’s poorly furnished sitting room that doubled as his office away from his office away from his office. Exhaling while squeezing the bridge of his nose, he muttered, “I’m fine, as is everyone else, Mummy, but I need to ask you something very important. Something that you need to answer truthfully.”

The line crackled in his parent’s silence. “Of course, Darling. Anything for you,” his father eventually murmured, concern in his voice.

“I need you to tell me what actually happened to _the other one_.” His statement was met by the silence that he was expecting.

“Oh, Mycroft,” his mother moaned, “You know that your father and I love you and Sherlock very much. What happened when you were fifteen, it’s no one’s fault.”

“Yes, I understand that Mum. However, I need to know exactly what happened.” He leaned forward in his chair, as if trying to relay the urgency of his request to the people who were not there.

His mother sighed as his father said quietly, “We should tell him, Wanda. It’s time he knew - It’s time they both knew.”

“You’re right, of course, my dear,” the older woman sighed, lovingly. After a short pause, she cleared her throat and began. “Sherrinford wasn’t planned, Mycroft. Honestly, Sherlock wasn’t either, but that’s besides the point. He came anyway and with him came something that had been buried in our family history. A rare condition, a disease of sorts, and we couldn’t handle it. We didn’t know how, so we gave him up to-to someone who could help him. Who could care for him. And instead of telling you boys the truth, exposing the horrific history of my family, we told you the partial truth. That he had been premature and that he didn’t make it.”

The statesman listened intently. “So he’s still alive?”

“We don’t know for sure, dear. We severed all ties with him once he made it through University, though he didn’t know that we were paying for his education and upbringing. I-I never got to hear his voice, see his face. I only held him once before-before...” The line was filled with soft sobs, his mother’s composure gone.

“Father,” Mycroft intoned, “Please make some sense of this. Why was my youngest sibling given away to some stranger to be raised?”

“Because, Mycky my boy,” his father said steadily, “Sherrinford inherited your great-grandfather’s curse. The curse of the Moon. He was what you would call a-”

“Werewolf.” The word fell from his lips, softly as if it stole his breath. “There is a history of lycanthropy in our family.”

“Yes,” his mother stammered. “My grandfather left his pack in Germany for my grandmother, much to their dismay and disappointment. She held his secret, as did his children and his grandchildren. There was always the possibility, but no one else had any symptoms. And Sherrinford was so normal for the first day of his life. Then the moon came and claimed him, stealing that innocent babe from my very breast.” Her crying began anew causing his father to pick up the tale of his youngest brother.

“So we contacted your grandmother, the daughter who carried the genes of the wolf, who would have known more about your great-grandfather than anyone else. She was able to find a member of his pack and he agreed to raise Sherrinford for us, for a price: We had to support the child in his educational endeavors but we could never contact him or see him again. His secret, the secret of his people, was too valuable.”

“I...I understand,” the eldest child whispered into the receiver by his ear. “Thank you, Father, Mummy, for confiding in me. I-I think you should tell Sherlock. He has something that he should tell you too.”

“Oh-Alright Darling,” his mother sniffled. “Thank you for the call. Please do call us again - any time. We love you, so very much.”

“I do love you too,” he said. “Good bye for now.” He broke the connection, quickly sending a text to his younger sibling.

MUMMY AND FATHER WILL CALL. ANSWER IT. TELL THEM - MH

ARE YOU MAD?! - SH

LISTEN TO THEM. YOU WILL UNDERSTAND - MH

A pause as he knew his brother contemplated what he was saying. His mobile dinged.

FINE. - SH

He could hear the disgruntled sigh and the eye roll from here. With a sigh, Mycroft hefted himself out of his chair. He had another sibling, one who was bent on his destruction and the ruin of those he cared for. He was going to need some cake.


	20. Molly

The light over her dingy kitchen table flickered, dying a slow death as Sherlock flinched at its frantic fluttering, his foul mood evident in his arms crossed firmly across his chest and the scowl marring his handsome face. Somehow, the bulb seemed to capture exactly what was happening at this very moment to their very world. Mycroft had sent the helicopter for her earlier than they had planned and her calculations of Sherlock’s run the previous evening had been left behind, locked safely in her lab table in Baskerville. Apparently, they had more pressing concerns.

When she had landed an hour ago, she had been ushered here by Anthea and was surprised to find both brothers sitting in the small flat, mugs of cold tea grasped in their hands like lifelines, still as statues. Mycroft looked solid, unwavering and unafraid. Her brother-in-law’s wolf was showing, his eyes and rigid stance betraying his new form of existence - a rare, exotic animal, dangerous but desired by any collector and scientist. That was when her entire sense of the world, of the very family that she belonged to shifted beneath her feet.

“So,” she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “You have another brother and he wants revenge for being disowned because of something that no one had any control over?”

The detective shot her a rather bored and judgmental look, his face hard. Her fiancé moved his hand to cover her own. “I need you to promise me, Molly, that you’re going to protect yourself. He’s not Sherlock, neither is the other one. They’ve turned someone once, I’m willing to bet that they’ll do it again.”

Sherlock snorted derisively. “I highly doubt that I was their first, Mycroft.”

Her fiancé rolled his eyes and continued, “You need to carry your taser, that syringe with the elephant tranquilizer, and wolfsbane. At all times, Molly. No exceptions.”

“But,” she said quietly, very much aware of the wolf bristling across the table from her, “Sherlock’s adjusted just fine. Who’s to say that they’d resort to the same tactics. Besides, I’ve observed Sherlock for the last four years. Who’s to say that it won’t be the same for me?”

“You don’t want this,” the detective hissed, his eyes focused on the wall beside him, ignoring the couple completely.

“I’m not saying that I do,” Molly whispered, reaching a hand out to the detective. He shook it off with a sharp inhale. “I’m just saying that I understand what could happen. Unlike you, I would be prepared.”

“Yes, well, monster doesn’t apparently run in your blood,” the dark-haired man said, clutching his tea tighter, his self-loathing apparent in his eyes. “This could have been coming for me anyway. Who’s to say that Mycroft won’t go furry next! After all - it runs in the family!” The last half of the statement was snarled through clenched and bared teeth, the younger man leaning forward aggressively.

“Stop acting like a child, Sherlock! This is no one’s fault but the man who’s orchestrating it.” His brother’s eyes shifted to his face, shooting daggers at him. “Besides, I think that our history could be an advantage. It could be that those turned without the blood of the wolf turn out differently.”

“Then we should warn the others,” the mortuary said quietly, her gaze lost in the light brown liquid of her mug. “John and Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. They’re as much family as your parents, if not more so. They’re in greater danger.”

“So are you,” the British Government whispered, rubbing his thumb over the rough, dry back of her hand, the leftover talc from the inside of her latex gloves shifting beneath his soft phalange.

“No.” Sherlock pushed back from the table and stood. “No one else must know about this. One leak and I’m finished - WE’RE finished. No, this stays here. Need to know basis only. Nothing more.”

With that, the man darkly stormed to the door, throwing his coat about his shoulders, and left, slamming the door shut behind him. Molly jumped, spilling her lukewarm tea on the table top.

Scrambling up, she grabbed a dish towel and began to mop up the mess. “Oh, looks at this mess,” she murmured, trying to hide her terror at the display that she had just witnessed.

“Molly.” The word was issued as a tender caress, calming her, though she still trembled and her heart felt like it was trying to hammer its way out of her chest. Her fiancé's soft left hand fell on her right with a reassuring squeeze, ending her frantic scrubbing. “He’s just scared. He’ll see reason eventually.”

Her hazel eyes found his, calmed by the love she found there. “But what if he doesn’t? He’s never been like this before, Myc. I could see the wolf in him - it’s just under the surface. I’ve never been so terrified in my life.”

“I know.” The British Government’s strong arms wound around her thin body, pulling her into his comforting side. “Just as I know him.” He placed a tender kiss onto the side of her neck, the warmth of his breath giving her permission to lean into him. “He’s scared because it could have been him. It could have been me. Instead of Sherrinford. And now he has the same condition and he’s worried what others will think of him - he’ll deny that, of course, but he only wants to be accepted. And he was, by the people who he deemed worthy, worth his time and talents. Now that this has happened, he knows that it’s only a matter of time before they will find out. Not everyone will be willing to climb into the cage with him Molly. Not everyone will see him, even when he’s covered in fur and driven by baser instincts. I know that I certainly didn’t.”

She placed her hands over his reassuringly. “But you came around. You saw the error in your thinking.”

“I had considerable help. From you, from Sherlock. Other’s may not listen to you and may lock him away where his humanity will fade in a form of self-preservation. Besides, he will stop Sherrinford before he acts again. As he said, he does not want this curse, nor, I think, does he wish it on anyone else. You must remember the first few months? The first year? The first time?”

Of course she did. It still played across her eyelids as she sought sleep on the nights of the full moon. _Sherlock writhing on the floor, shrieking as his body broke and rebuilt himself. Moving from human to other to unrecognizable to animal. It took minutes upon agonizing minutes and she could do nothing._

_Sherlock, his face placed into it’s usual mask, allowing it to slip a bit when handed another cup. Another syringe. Another vial. More samples from his alien body. Another test of his agility. His stamina. His weaknesses. His strengths. The list of physical changes, which he had kindly, if not grudgingly and with unveiled self-loathing, let her poke and prod in both forms on countless occasions._

_How he had loathed it when his body had responded, the knot beneath her hands swelling, eliciting a moan that the man had quickly cut off by biting down harshly on his lips and tongue. How he had flushed with shame as his short, but evident vestigial tail had twitched when she stroked his hair, carding it with her fingers. How his face had taken on a hungry, feral quality with his longer, sharper canines and his slightly tipped ears that liked to be scratched, an action that had caused his leg to jump and jostle reflexively, even as a human._

“How could I forget, Mycroft? Could you?” She blinked back the tears in her eyes.

“No,” her lover breathed, placing his cheek on the top of her head gently.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

She wasn’t quite sure why she’s here. What had driven her to leave the comfort of her fiancé's loving arms at one in the morning to take a cab to Baker Street. But something had been rubbing at her, pushing her to overcome that fear that had consumed her earlier, driving her to seek out the werewolf the night after the full moon. When he may not even be in his human form, when his instincts might be unleashed at the slightest inclination.

Removing the spare key from her pocket, she let herself into 221, firmly closing and locking the door behind her before making her way up the stairs. The seventh step let out a firm complaint. She stopped, suddenly terrified, her ears straining to hear any hint of movement. Nothing.

Letting out the breath that she had unknowingly been holding, she quickly made her way up the rest of the stairs. As 221B drew nearer, her worries resurfaced. Stopping, she muttered, “What am I thinking? I shouldn’t have done this.”

She turned to go back down the stairs and quickly leave when she heard the door open behind her. She froze.

“Molly.” It was a statement, not a question. She closed her eyes, exhaling her own stupidity. The werewolf would have heard the cab pull up, would have distinguished her from her footsteps, would have smelled her unique redolence as it wafted through the night.

“I wasn’t expecting you to answer,” she whispered, hating how she was frozen under his gaze. The silence stretched between them in the dark hallway.

“Would you like to come in, or do you want to just stand there?” Again, the statement was quiet, unthreatening.

She turned around, her eyes down and submissive, not wanting to test the wolf. “I just wanted to check on you,” she whispered, taking a tentative step forward.

“Does Mycroft know you’re here?” he asked quietly, but again without any hint of emotion.

Unable to resist, she raised her head, her eyes meeting the impossible swirled irises of the tall, dark-haired man. His face was passive, if not slightly confused. He was wearing only his housecoat. He had given into the moon.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I-I shouldn’t have come. I should have known that you-”

He cut her off with a raised hand. “Come in, Molly. I’d prefer to not do this in the hallway in case...” She nodded, climbing the stairs quickly and sweeping by the man into his flat.

It was a bit disheveled. Books, usually stacked, had been toppled by a large furry body that had been romping about the flat. There was a throw blanket, usually draped on the back of the couch, that was a tangled heap on the floor, filled with curly, dark brown fur. She suspected that the detective’s bed was in a similar state.

“No,” she said, turning to face the taller man again as he shut the door firmly behind him.

“Excuse me?” he asked, his eyes narrowing defensively.

“The answer to your question about Mycroft is no, though I’m assuming that he’s figured it out by now.”

“Oh.” He relaxed visibly. His eyes flickered to his small kitchenette. “Would you like something to eat?”

“Oh. No, thank you,” she said, rubbing her arm, suddenly uncomfortable. She followed the statement quickly with, “But you should eat if you’re hungry.”

The man nodded and padded to the kitchen, pulling out a chair at his experiment-covered table as he went to his cupboards. “Have a seat.”

She sat, watching the young man move about his kitchen, pulling a can of sausages from a cabinet along with some crackers and a jar of mustard from the refrigerator. Setting the items down on the table, he set about consuming the food as if he hadn’t had sustenance in days instead of hours, his metabolism in overdrive from the closeness of the moon and the shift he had just experienced.

“Sherl-”

“Molly-”

She smiled at the man, his mouth full of crackers, which he promptly swallowed with a grin. “You first,” he said, eyes earnest as he reached for another sausage and dipped it into the mustard jar.

“I just wanted you to know that you - Sherlock Holmes - are not that other man, be he some lost brother or not. I know this. More importantly, your brother knows this. Your parents know this. He knows it, Sherlock. And he is an idiot if he thinks that any one of us would abandon you because of a little fur.”

“It’s more than that Molly, and you know it,” he whispered, his eyes suddenly focused on the table.

“So what?” she asked. “None of it has changed the most important part of you, Sherlock. You are still brilliant and brave and, as much as you hate to admit it, loyal, and protective and kind to those who are worthy of you.”

His eyes met hers, grateful. He reached a hand out to her hesitantly, causing her to grab it enthusiastically with a bright smile. “Whether you mean to tell Greg, or Mrs. Hudson, or John, they will tell you the _same thing_. After all, you did tell me that the mind was what mattered, everything else was just transport.”

“Yes, transport,” he said with a cockeyed grin, his lips pressed together. He sighed, leaning back and taking his hand from her warm grasp. “I think I’m going to go back to Baskerville on more of a full-time basis.”

“What?” she breathed, her brow furrowing in confusion.

The consulting detective continued. “If I am not here, then _he_ won’t attack the people I care about. I will not be here, so why would he?”

She contemplated the statement, realizing that what he was saying was probably true. If he was more comfortable away from his family, isolated on the moor, then so be it. “Okay,” she said quietly. “What do you need me to do?”


	21. John

The moving boxes had been coming and going all day, clogging the stairway with loud, sweaty workmen that neither Sherlock nor Evelyn seemed thrilled about. In all honesty, he could have cared less about them as well, except that they were moving his best friend’s stuff out of 221B. Not all of it, mind you, only what Sherlock deemed ‘important.’ Half of the boxes were being chased back up the stairs by the frazzled detective as his equally commanding brother insisted that they go, which resulted in the most confusing conversation.

“No. NO! Bring those back! I have no need for those - what _are_ those anyway? MOLLY!”

“Don’t listen to him. Sherlock you need towels. They are going.”

“Unnecessary. Where are my books? Particular those relating to plants and herbs?”

“They’re on the shelf, where they should be!”

“I. NEED. THOSE.”

“Since _when_?”

Every now and again, the small, red-headed woman would step in between the two men and make them both reach a compromise in hushed tones. Either way, the back of Mycroft’s SUV was filled with boxes by sundown. Boxes that he had not wanted leaving in the first place, regardless of what they held. Those boxes symbolized more than the loss of material items, they represented his loss of Sherlock Holmes. His best friend. Who refused to tell him _why_ he was moving besides the fact that his ‘experiment’ needed him more than one or two days a month.

“It’s not permanent, John,” he had said almost sadly, his eyes, those eyes that had stared out at him from a different face days ago, large and filled with sympathy. It was a question that he would never have an answer to you.“It’s only until I have a break through. Then I’ll be back in 221B. I promise you.”

That had been two days ago and now the bloody day of departure was here. It was like he was dying all over again. Here one day, gone the next. Yes, now he had Evelyn but the poor girl didn’t understand. She thought that the tall, strange man would be coming back in a couple of days. That’s how he had made it sound, even as the mask slipped into place, concealing the truth of the matter. It wouldn’t be days. It could be years. By that time, his little girl would be in school and he would be a grey shell, a husk with it’s single purpose given to the happiness of one beautiful child. Forgoing his own happiness because it had left him, again. And he would be a fool for letting the unfeeling man back in a third time.

A soft knock on his door pulled him away from the window. Sherlock was standing in his open doorway, his hands planted firmly in the pockets of his Belstaff, the collar turned up against the January chill. “Well, I’m off,” he said dully, his face apologetic.

“Have a safe trip,” he responded, not wanting to give anything if the detective wasn’t willing to reciprocate. “Evelyn will miss you.”

That earned a small, tight-lipped smile from the younger man. “I will miss her too,” he breathed, turning from the doorway, letting his hand stray on the frame, tracing it gently. As he strode into the hallway and down the stairs, the doctor could have sworn that he head heard, “And you, John.”

But no. That was his sentimentality. He had longed for a statement of affection and his mind had manufactured it, attempting to sooth the gaping hole and fill the empty space that had reopened inside his chest.

__________________________________________________

**Five Months Later**

He shut the door to his flat firmly with his foot, his arms filled with bulging sacks of groceries. “Evelyn? Sweetie are you up here?” he called, realizing that his child was probably napping downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s spare room, as was her usual afternoon activity.

He set the bags down with a solid huff, watching them both topple, their contents spilling across the counter and onto the tiled floor. “Great. Just great,” he muttered darkly, bending to pick up the bruised fruits and vegetables. “Just what I needed.”

His day at the clinic had been aggravating to say the least. One of his patients had contracted a peculiar virus and had proceeded to heave his breakfast all over him, leaving him smelling of sick for the rest of the day. His girlfriend of the past three weeks had found out about his daughter and had promptly dumped him. Via text message. He told himself that he didn’t like her anyway, but it still hurt that the only good thing in his life was driving other people away. Then, at the grocery, he had gotten into an argument with the automated checkout machine, making a complete fool of himself. All he wanted now was to shower, kiss his baby girl, and to curl up in a dark corner for days. _Life. Sucks. It could not get ANY WORSE._

Stripping his clothes off, he stepped into the shower, letting the hot water burn his disgusting flesh that reeked of half-digested eggs, beans, and ham. He lathered his hair, relishing in the pull of the now nearly grey follicles in his weathered hands. Knowing that he should relieve his wonderful sitter, he rinsed and stepped from the shower, quickly dressing and heading out his flat.

His phone, a forgotten weight in his pocket, buzzed. With a sigh, his hand halfway to the door knob, he reached in and pulled it out.

SHERLOCK

“What?” he breathed, quickly answering the device. “Sherlock?” he asked, expectantly, but also curious. The other man hadn’t contacted him since he had moved five months ago, and even then, he never called. Not when he could text.

“Hello Doctor Watson,” came a smooth baritone that did not sound a thing like the detective.

“Who are you?” he asked, suddenly frightened though his protective streak was shining through. “And why do you have Sherlock’s phone?”

“He, unfortunately, doesn’t have thumbs at the moment,” came the reply, which was followed by a rather sinister chuckle. “As for who _I_ am, you’ll find out soon enough. That is, of course, if you ever want to see your landlady and your child again.”

His heart, already beating a frantic tattoo on his ribcage, rose to his throat, stealing his breath. “No,” he was able to choke out into the receiver.

The laughter continued. “Come to Baskerville. You do that, Doctor Watson, and they are yours.”

“Alive,” he said a bit too frantically for his liking.

“Alive.” There was a pause. “And, if you cooperate, relatively unharmed. Oh, and Doctor Watson...I suggest you get here before sundown. Things are going to get rather - shall we say hairy - around then.”

The line went dead. The cold hum in his ear made him angry. Chucking his mobile onto the couch, he flew from his flat. _That son of a b*tch! How dare he?! Threaten his daughter and the woman who was - for all intensive purposes - her grandmother! This man had no idea who he was dealing with._

He stormed down the stairs yelling for his daughter and her baby sitter, his voice echoing about the suddenly huge building, praying that the phone call was a prank. Unfortunately, the more he shouted himself hoarse, the more he realized that the man had spoken true. Stopping back in his flat, he threw some things into a duffle and picked up his phone, berating himself for taking his anger out on the device. The screen was cracked, but he was able to punch in the necessary numbers. Surprisingly, the person he had been wanting to reach answered after the first ring.

“Car. Downstairs,” came the calm voice of Mycroft Holmes. “It will take you to my private airfield and will get you to Baskerville.”

He began to make his way down the stairs, locking the door behind him. The black town car, windows tinted darkly, was, indeed waiting for him. He opened the door to the stoic and imposing figure of the elder Holmes.

“Thank you for this Mycroft,” he sighed, resting his head in his hands, suddenly feeling exhausted. A hand, placed tentatively on his shoulder, brought him back up to sitting, the hand quickly returning to it’s owners lap.

“John,” man leaned forward. “I swear to you that we will get them back. All of them - though I can’t guarantee that you won’t be changed through it.”

He turned his head, pursing his lips and wrinkling his brow, his eyebrows drawing together. “Care to explain that, Mycroft?” He fixed the statesman in his hard, confused gaze.

“This man-” The ginger sighed, his usual flawless demeanor slipping around his eyes as worry set in. “This man claims to be family.”

John knew that his eyebrows shot up. “There’s another one?” he practically moaned.

“Yes, though we didn’t know of his existence until five months ago. Our parents gave him up for adoption.“

“Five...months ago,” he murmured. “That’s when Sherlock left.”

“Yes,” Mycroft answered with a slight tilt of his head. “To protect you.”

“From this _man?!_ He didn’t hide me from Moriarty!”

“He _jumped off a building for you_ , John.” The statement was quiet. “Of course he would try to do what he deemed best. To protect you.”

“From the other Holmes brother? I know _two_ of you. I could handle a third.” His irritation at the notion of a homicidal Holmes being a threat to him and his family rising to new heights.

“Of that I have no doubts, John.” He smirked slightly, his lips pressed together, before his face became serious again. “No, he left to protect you from himself and a secret that he feels he can’t tell you.”

“He tells me everything,” the doctor responded a bit hostilely.

“No - he doesn’t. And tonight, you will find out why.”


	22. Sherlock

_Head - throbbing, migraine forming behind right temple, eye sight unfocused, tongue heavy, tasting of blood. Mine, thankfully. Limbs throbbing and aching. Forced into my other form. Drugged._

He had woken in a tank in Baskerville, not for the first time, though the harsh, fluorescent lights and the tang of someone who was not his usual companion met is nostrils. The last thing he remembered was running, the wind playing through his tangled and unkempt fur, dirt beneath his claws, the taste of his latest kill still fresh in his mouth and filling his belly. The last memory he had before that was telling John goodbye.

Why he was inside the facility puzzled him. Molly had called to him, he knew, several nights ago. He had not answered, losing himself in the Wolf. It was easier that way. No feeling of loss, or, at least not as strong as it was as a human. He returned to the woman and to his original form once, maybe twice a month around the new moon when his shape would not hold. She would bandage him, force him to eat something that was cooked, and chide him for his childish notion that Sherrinford would attack him on the moor, then he would leave his family and his pack alone. _I thought that that was what he wanted - the acceptance and love that he had never been given, still lavished upon a son with the same condition that had deemed him unworthy. I was wrong._

His parents had called, as Mycroft had predicted all those months ago, and, as his brother wished, he had listened. Then he had told them that, while he was far from perfect, he had fallen farther - subhuman, like their youngest, unworthy of belonging to their family - or to anyone’s family, really. His mother had cried, his father had attempted comfort but it had never been his forte. One thing had surprised him, however. They had told him to come home, to have more space to run, to allow them to continue to care for him. He had refused not wanting their sympathy. Not wanting to be their second chance at doing right by their children that belonged to the Goddess. However, he was relieved to know that they loved him and that they didn’t care ( _that much_ ) that he became a wolf once a month.

He opened his eyes, the color that was present was too vibrant, almost cloying after seeing the world in shades of grey for so long. He inhaled as he tested each limb, flexing fingers and toes that had not existed for weeks. His olfactory sense honed in on the other ‘human’ before his eyes did, drawing his attention to the far wall of his cell.

The tall, slender man was leaning idly against the side of the tank, grinning savagely, his teeth on full display. His scent, cloying and commanding, played through the filtered air. The man was Alpha, that was very clear and it was becoming a dominant feature in an attempt to cow him in his confines. He growled, a weak sound coming from his human vocal cords, bearing his teeth at those laughing, blue eyes in a rather pathetic threat.

As the man chuckled at his own ingenuity, the consulting detective continued to scan about him. The heaviness of the drug was lifting but was wrapping itself about his muscles and bones, preventing a shift to his deadlier form even though the call of the Moon was intense. Diana would be full and luminescent tonight. Feeling a flash of shame at his nakedness, he spotted a sheet, balled up in the corner and reached for it, wrapping it about himself.

“Nice to see that you’re not so far gone,” the posh baritone said, cutting clearly through the plexiglass. “I’m sure that it is due to your continued interactions with our brother’s mate? The little red-headed woman - Molly, is it?” He grinned as Sherlock flinched. “Oooh, she is rather nice. Plump in _all_ the right places.”

Despite his human state, the instincts of the wolf were still coursing through his blood, causing the lanky detective to throw himself at the man, rumbling the glass. “Now, now, Mr. Holmes. None of that.” The Alpha pheromones became stronger. The dark-haired man gagged, reeling back from the barrier, pressing the sheet over his nose with a sharp and humiliating whine.

“Ah.” Sherrinford pushed off the glass and turned away. “You have much to learn before you can earn the right to a place in my world, Brother.”

“I am _not_ your brother,” the consulting detective hissed vehemently.

The other wolf spun gracefully, a knowing smirk on his lips. “Of _that_ I am certain. You are not worthy to that title.”

Through clenched teeth, his muscles spasming slightly from the strain of the drug and his fervent desire to have his fur-covered body back, the man in the box hissed, “The same could be said for you.”

“Then we are in agreement.” The taller man’s head cocked to the side, his eyes probing his body like needles, observing every detail, as if the sheet wasn’t wrapped about him. With a softer voice, his younger sibling continued. “You have the makings of an Alpha - Mycroft does as well. Despite our shared heritage, however, you were _made_. And thus, _you are weak_.” He emphasized the ‘K,’ causing it to rebound around the large storage space that his container was housed in. “But seeing as the great and glorious Britain has been under the thumb of the Holmes boys for years, putting them under mine shouldn’t be that difficult. Not when I can command them. Because, Sherlock, continental Europe is carved out. Every pack has its place. I can’t accept that - it’s not in my nature to grovel and why should I? Not when Britain is ripe for the picking! So many unassuming _humans_ and only three wolves on British soil. I can pick and choose, so why not start with the people who would despise it the most?”

A door clanged open and the sound of something heavy being dragged reached the wolves’ acute ears. Their heads swiveled, assessing the newest additions to the room. “Oh, Papa,” Sherrinford said almost tenderly, “That is too kind of you to bring them here to keep my poor brother company tonight.” The grey-haired man that was the wolf that had turned Sherlock gave a small nod, his head tilting to the left, baring his throat in submission before moving to sit in the corner, his eyes never leaving the pile of body parts that he had brought with him.

The pile twitched and a moan was emitted. Slowly, Molly Hooper-Holmes extricated herself from the tangle of limbs looking a bit discombobulated. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the grey-haired man with his odd eyes and his menacing, shadowy leer and became wider still as she saw the complete animalistic lust that the younger man was throwing her way. Her gaze found Sherlock, who gave her a small nod of reassurance.

To her credit, the plucky medical examiner’s attention returned to the heap of humans, first removing a miraculously napping Evelyn ( _His heart plummeted_ ), a confused and probably drugged Lestrade, and an overprotective and exceedingly pissed-off Mrs. Hudson. Where’s John? He breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Well, that’s quite the company, I’d say,” the youngest Holmes said cheerfully clapping his hands loudly, causing the detective to yip and clasp his hands over his now ringing ears. “Unfortunately, I have to go. No use in my sitting around while you reveal exactly what I want them to know.” He grinned widely. “Oh, and don’t worry about them. They fit into my plans. After all, one can only fall when there is no one left to pick you back up. Unfortunately, I’m going to miss the show.”

“Enjoying your freedom?” the dark-haired man asked darkly, his eyes flashing as he stood, meeting the Alpha’s impossibly blue eyes.

“Oh, no Brother dear!” he chortled. “I’m making a house call. Mummy and Daddy will be so pleased to see me, I assure you. I’ll give them your best, shall I?” He grinned, his teeth flashing a challenge. Sherlock threw himself against the side of the tank, shaking the plexiglass. “Ta.” The other man’s smirk widened and he gave a little, taunting wave before striding purposefully from the room, followed by the grey man.

“Molly,” the werewolf hissed, feeling the Moon draw closer to rising as the sun cast long, orange rays through high windows. The woman looked up at him, Evelyn held tightly to her chest. “Molly, give her to Mrs. Hudson and get me out of here.”

The small woman did as she was asked, Lestrade hot on her heels. “What are you doing in there?” he asked, probably thinking that he put himself, naked, into the clear box for some experiment.

“Look for a weakness or a lock,” he muttered walking about the small container, sniffing slightly for fresher air. There had to be a filter somewhere and with the filter came a structural weakness.

The other two moved around the plexiglass square, running their hands along it. The detective inspector’s face was written with confusion while Molly’s became increasingly distressed. Sherlock tried to remain calm as his muscles and body revolted, twitching and pulsing against the restraints of the drug he’d been injected with.

Suddenly, he stopped, turning to face his Pack. “How did you get caught?”

“Snuck in from the backdoor, dear. Hit me over the head right after I put this one to bed,” Mrs, Hudson intoned, gently rocking the small toddler.

“I’m not quite sure,” Lestrade said, leaning heavily against the tank, “Though I’m pretty sure I was drugged. My head feels really funny. Is this some sort of joke?”

“I’m afraid not,” Molly whispered, placing her hand on the glass, mirroring the consulting detective’s hand. Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “I was in the lab and he snuck up on me. Injected me with something, though I’m not quite sure what it was.”

He nodded once, his mouth forming a tight line as he continued to scour the plexiglass. _Something, there must be something. A door at least. How else could I get in here? He can’t have lifted it over me like some-_ He was standing on concrete, like the rest of the floor.

“Everyone, pick a side,” he commanded, directing the still unstable Lestrade to stand beside the mortuary and the landlady. “He placed this _over_ me. I’m going to lift and you’re going to catch the lip and tip it over. On the count of three. One.”

He reached up, arms slightly bent at the elbow and feeling extremely leaden.

“Two.” He pressed his palms agains the low, plexiglass ceiling as Molly, Lestrade, and, with a bit of popping in her hip, Mrs. Hudson bent, ready to grab the edge.

“THREE!” He pushed up, moving away from the group of bent people, focusing his force on the far edge.

The plexiglass bounced on impact with a strange wobbling sound, the far side, and now bottom, cracking. “Thank you,” Sherlock said with a small smile. “Now’ I’ve got to get out of here - don’t follow me.”

He gathered his sheet, which had fallen to the floor and given everyone an eye full, and ran to the doors. The Moon was calling to him along with the wilds. If he shifted now, he may make it to his parents’ in Oxford, though most likely not before one or both of them were infected, or worse. The doors were surprisingly unlocked, but a shrill alarm sounded as soon as he forced them open. Resisting the urge to drop his modesty-providing sheet to cover his now ringing ears, he continued to run.

He could hear footsteps behind him, but he was faster, his bare feet providing strong purchase on the tile floor. A wave of Moon-based urges rolled over him, causing him to gasp and trip. Again, he resisted the urge to give in right there and continue on his four, strong legs. Instead, he rose and ran, his feet slapping the linoleum with firm contact. The outside doors were before him, the Goddess just rising over the moors. All he needed to do was reach the main gate. He burst through the double doors, his feet meeting gravel and stone and dirt. He grinned, victory within his grasp.

A growl, not his own but familiar none-the-less, warned him just before he was bowled over. The grey wolf, as large and as terrifying as the first time he had ever laid eyes on the beast, was on top of him, scratching and snapping, spraying it’s venomous spittle all over his body. Instinct took over and he shouted in pain, his muscles put under extra stress from the suppressive drug and the adrenaline that he was using to fend off this attack. He was pushing at the other wolf’s thick neck, his hands grasping for it’s throat, anything to keep the creature from finding his own and certainly ending his life. He watched as his fingers gave way to paws, his kicking legs breaking and reforming, his jaw and nose lengthening into a snout, which promptly attempted to replace his hands on the thick, muscled column of grey fur before him.

His scrambling earned a sharp yip as his hind legs tore open the other wolf’s abdomen. His small victory was short-lived, however, as the grey wolf’s strong jaws found his left shoulder and clamped down on it, drawing blood. He retaliated by grabbing a foreleg in his own jaws and closing them sharply, hearing bone crunch and tasting hot, metallic blood on his tongue. The grey wolf readjusted his grip, moving closer to his neck while swiping at his exposed ribs with his hind legs, opening his side. The detective recalculated, tilting his wedge-shaped skull into the angle of the other werewolf’s trapezius and biting with relish, tearing flesh and muscle.

An ear-splitting shot rang out. The other wolf’s jaws went slack and something hot went screaming through his right collarbone. Frightened, Sherlock dropped the limp body, his sides heaving as his crimson blood matted his already tangled fur and sprinkled the ground. Slowly, he raised his head, ears pitched forward at the challenger, tail down and hackles raised, adrenaline coursing through his veins, blocking the pain that he should have been feeling. Before a warning growl escaped his lips, his eyes met the grey-blue orbs of Doctor John Watson, his Browning still aimed between his eyes, right in his blind spot.

His eyes widened. _He knows. John knows. He knows I’m a monster. A creature. Not human._ He scrambled back, ignoring the intense pain coming from his left flank and right shoulder and turned and ran, his steps stumbling and scrambling as his strength wained. The moor promised safety, a place to get lost, to hide and never return.

“Sherlock!” the army doctor called, sounding concerned. “Sherlock! Come back!”

The wolf ran on, the soldier’s protests fading into the night.


	23. Molly

She had seen the whole thing, of course. She had seen the wolves, feral and terrifying, tearing each other to pieces. She had seen John Watson practically leap from the helicopter as he watched his best friend be replaced by his brother’s ‘dog.’ She had seen the gun come up and the marksman take his aim, waiting for the opportunity to kill with unmatched accuracy. She had texted Mycroft about the Holmes’ and he had taken off again, right after John exited and witnessed the whole thing. She had seen one wolf fall and the other cower, ashamed, and run for the moor despite his injuries. He would heal physically in a few hours, of that she was certain. If he would heal psychologically and mentally, was another story.

Gathering her cardigan about her shoulders against the chill of the May evening, she walked up to the soldier as he watched the majestic, dark wolf lope lopsidedly away into the night. She gently rested a hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump, turning to look at her with wide eyes.

“Come on John,” she said quietly, “We have a lot to talk about, you and I.”

“Sher-sher...” the man stammered, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. He rubbed a hand over his face before turning to look at the red-head.

“Yes,” she whispered quietly with a small smile. “He’s still our Sherlock.” Her smile took a sad turn. “But please, John, come in. I think you need some dinner, some rest. Tomorrow, everything will be explained.” She added, under her breath, “I hope.”

She took the doctor’s arm which was surprisingly not trembling, though his blood was racing in his veins, his pulse throbbing just beneath the surface, and steered him away from the moor. Their steps led them through the packed dirt of the courtyard, small clouds kicking up in their wake, and through the heavy outer doors. The sound of their footsteps, slow but not overly laborious. John seemed to steady under her arm, his breathing relaxing as they walked though he muttered under his breath, “ _I knew it. I thought they were his eyes and they were. I knew it._ ” It brought a smile to her lips. She knew that John would have noticed something as blatant as eye color, especially when the eye color in question was Sherlock’s heterochromia. He would be accepting, she was certain of it.

She steered the short man to the apartment that she shared with her fiancé and unlocked to door with shaky fingers. She was worried about Mycroft, her in-laws, the man she used to love as he traversed the moor, wounded and vulnerable. _Please, Sherlock, come back tomorrow. Contrary to what your instincts are telling you, you can’t run forever._

“Come in, John,” she said kindly, motherly, gesturing him into the rather messy flat. “I apologize for the disaster that waits for you. I haven’t had the chance to clean.” 

“I live in a glorified bachelor pad with a child under the age of ten, Molly. I’m not offended by a little mess.” The soldier strode through the door and was greeted by piles. Piles of Sherlock’s things. “Sherlock’s living here.” It was a statement, not a question.

“He hasn’t been staying here at the compound often, only one or two nights a month, so he didn’t find it necessary to take a flat that could house someone else. Mycroft and I aren’t here all the time, so I offered. Myc doesn’t really approve, but Sherlock stays here nonetheless. Mycroft may be the British Government, but even the Government has weaknesses.” She smiled, opening the refrigerator and pulling out what little she had within it: potatoes and carrots. The freezer, she knew, held some beef, stocked for the Wolf. She took out a pound, hoping that Sherlock would find something in the wild for that night. “How does Winter Stew sound?”

“Yeah, great,” the doctor responded, distracted. He was looking at the living room. “What’s with the pile of sheets and - things?”

“Oh,” she looked up from her slicing, the beef already simmering in the pan on the stove. Her eyes followed the direction that the greying man was pointing and saw the jumbled heap of blankets that she had pulled out for Sherlock that second night, four and a half years ago. “That’s where Sherlock sleeps when he’s here.”

“He...sleeps...on the floor?” The man’s blue eyes were confused as they met hers.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “Claims the bed is too soft.”

“Too...soft,” the man murmured. He sat on the couch head in his hands, his eyes still fixed on the pile of disheveled sheets. She knew that he could see the dark fur that littered it along with the chewed bits of leather (T _hat pair of slippers that Mycroft loved were apparently his younger sibling’s latest chew toy_ ) and the red leather collar with it’s tags. He leaned forward, plucking the worn, red leather from the mess. Molly winced. knowing exactly what he would read. “Willie. Registered Irish Wolfhound/Great Dane/Siberian Husky/Belgian Sheep Dog. If found, return to: Mycroft Holmes, 221B Baker Street, Westminster, London.”

The door was opened by the small figure of Mrs. Hudson carrying a tired, hungry, and whiny Evelyn. The army doctor snapped out of his state of shock and disbelief and rose to take his child into his arms. “Hello Beautiful,” he murmured, jostling her on his hip and making her giggle. “How about some dinner, yeah?”

“Yes, please Daddy!” she said urgently, practically hopping within his arms.

“I think you need to ask Aunt Molly if she has enough for you,” he chuckled, setting the little girl down and watching her skip off to the woman who had been watching his interaction. She watched the small, blonde head bounce her way over to the counter, big puppy eyes plastered on her face. She also noticed the girl’s father as he pocketed the dog tags, a strange look on his face.

____________________________________________________

She couldn’t sleep. Her hands were clasped around her fifth mug of tea, her eyes were trained on the horizon, watching the first pink streaks of dawn rise from the mists of the moor. Mycroft had texted her hours ago with an update. Sherrinford had not gone to his parents’ estate as he had claimed was his plan. This made the statesman nervous, but he would never reveal this to anyone. Since the werewolf had lied, where had he gone and, more importantly, _who had he turned?_ Strangers - Unsuspecting humans, their lives changed forever by a single bite, a single instant defining the rest of their existence.

As she continued to look out the window, a familiar curly and unkempt head limped into view. She smiled over the lukewarm cup. He had chosen wisely, the man’s logic outweighing the wolf’s instincts. She rose from the couch and made her way out of the flat, closing the door with a soft click, not wanting to wake her guests who had been spread about the apartment. The father, holding his child on her bed, Mrs. Hudson in the guest room, Lestrade on one of the couches.

She made good time on her way to the front doors and was able to open them just as the werewolf arrived, still clinging to his canine shape in the waning moonlight. He looked awful, bedraggled and exhausted, like he had lived through a war and survived. His fur was matted with blood and filled with small twigs and other debris from the woods. His head hung, almost in defeat, his ears drooping, tail hanging lifeless, as he limped heavily.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she murmured. “Come in. I’ll patch you up in the lab.”

The wolf gave a soft whine in response, a small sound confirming that he had heard. “It would be easier...if you...shifted...when we got there,” she stuttered. “I never went to veterinary school, contrary to popular belief.” She chuckled softly, attempting to lighten the mood.

The consulting detective did not respond but followed slightly behind her, his usually confident strides shortened and staggering, his pain and distress obvious.

The lab was empty, as would be the case at five thirty in the morning. She turned to the wolf who limped in behind her, a high-pitched whine rolling out of his throat. “I’m going to get the kit. Make yourself comfortable, or as comfortable as you can.”

He nodded once before the whine deepened, the rising sun aiding in his transformation back to human, to become a low moan. He lacked the energy to make any other noise. She strode away quickly, giving him privacy and not wanting to see the detective at his most vulnerable. As she grabbed the medical kit, she called over her shoulder, “There’s a sheet on my lab table.”

“Obvious,” came the response, the young man’s deep baritone resinating about the large, tiled space. She heard the sheet rustling along with a strong hiss and a thump of skin on metal. She turned around to see the werewolf slumped on her workbench, a stark white sheet wrapped around his hips.

His side had healed, long pink scars marring his once perfect skin. They’d fade by nightfall. The bite on his left shoulder was also healing, the thick, mucus-y liquid coating it and clotting the blood there. The right shoulder, the one John Watson had shot him in, was still oozing blood. “The bullet’s still imbedded,” the detective hissed softly. “I can feel it easing itself back out through the wound.” He winced visibly.

“I’ll pull it out, then,” she said with a smile, pulling out her tweezers and sliding gloves onto her hands, not wanting to come into contact with the shimmering liquid. “Wouldn’t want you in more pain than necessary. Unfortunately for you, we both know that morphine-”

He cut her off sullenly, “Has no effect. My temperature burns it off too quickly. Just do it.” She could hear his jaw clench, though it was quickly deemed ineffective as his inhuman howl ripped through his body in response to the shiny metal instrument was inserted into his shoulder.

__________________________________________________

“Come along darling,” she called, holding a hand out for the little girl, her hair done up in a cute french braid, swinging behind her as she skipped. “Let’s go see the animals!” “YAY!” the blonde shouted, causing the wolf to wince visibly. She sprinted over. “Is Willie going to be there? I haven’t seen him in _forever!_ ”

“Oh, no Angel,” the mortuary quickly countered. “He’s with Uncle Myc right now in London. But he misses you too. Maybe,” she looked at the two former flatmates that were sitting opposite each other on the leather couches of her sitting room pointedly, “Maybe the two of you can have a playdate soon.”

“Okay!” The beautiful little girl, who looked more like her mother every day, beamed. She turned, her small hand still grasped in the larger hand of the medical examiner. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me and Molly, Daddy? Uncle Shock? Nana?”

The blonde-grey haired man smiled tightly. “Yes, we’re sure, Evelyn. Have fun with Aunt Molly and tell me all about it when you get back!” He waved jovially back at the pair of them until the woman shut the door, blocking out the scene of the Baker Street trio.

“Let’s shake a leg, shall we?” Molly smiled, looking down at the little girl. “We have lots to see!”


	24. Sherlock

He observed his one ally as she retreated from her flat, his youngest Pack member trailing behind her. His heart fell. Molly would have backed him up, would have made them see that he was no different than he had been. ( _Well, that was a lie. I am very different than I have been, I am, however, the same as I have been since my return_ ). That he was no danger. That he was protecting them from someone far worse. Only, she was gone, protecting the innocent mind of his best friend’s child.

He steepled his hands, wincing slightly at the pull in his right shoulder and twinge in his left clavicle, and looked at the pair that sat opposite him. Mrs. Hudson knew less than John, of that he was certain, but she was a smart woman and she would have noticed things that were different. Maybe even as far back as his return. John looked unsure, but not nervous, like he didn’t know how or where to start. Finally, the man reached into his pocket of his rumpled trousers ( _slept in his clothes last night_ ) and removed his collar. _Must have found it in my bed. Downside to not having my own room_. He sighed into his hands, knowing what was coming next. The soldier turned the strap over and over in his hands before setting it on the table with a soft thunk, the tags tinkling lightly on the antique wood.

“Care to explain this, Sherlock?” The army captain had arrived, cold and unfeeling. Unbelieving, despite what he had seen the previous evening. The shorter man leaned back into the worn leather of the couch cushions and crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to appear larger and more intimidating. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes flickered back and forth between the pair and said nothing, though her confusion at the object that now sat on the table was clear.

Sherlock sighed, removing his hands from under his chin, leaning back and tilting his head slightly as he did so, letting John know that he was letting him be in charge, that that he was yielding to his military authority. _I come in peace_. “Of all the things you’ve seen, you are asking about a strip of leather and a pair of metal tags?” he retorted with a soft snort, interested in why the doctor had decided to begin there. John glared back at him, not interested in the behavior that he as sure the father deemed childish.

“Fine,” he exhaled slowly, closing his eyes and retreating to his mind palace, dredging up memories that he’d rather not reflect upon but needed to be told. “It started four and a half years ago. Serbia. I had completed my final mission for Mycroft - classified - and was going to return home. To you, John, and you, Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade and his inept force that claims to be police.” He paused, knowing that the detective inspector would still be unaware of his condition, as he had left earlier in the morning for London with a bit of a drug-induced hangover. He could not recall much of what had happened the previous evening and did not really care to know at this point in time.

Gathering his thoughts, he continued, sticking to the necessary facts. “I escaped the location but was caught by a rather large, grey wolf that promptly savaged my leg. The next thing I remember is waking up here with Mycroft, insufferable as usual, telling me that instead of amputating my leg, as was their original intent, they were taking my cast off. It had been a week after my escape. My healing had become exceptionally quick, my wounds leaking a strange silvery substance as they healed. My sense of smell became unimaginably sharp, as did my hearing. I slowly became able to see in the dark with a combination of grey scale and heat index vision. The only scar that remained was the Bite I had received.

“Molly, Mycroft, and I ran tests. My heart rate was slower than the average human, my temperature a constant 104. I started eating regularly and in rather large helpings, especially meats, with no weight gain, and I exercised for long stretches of time, remaining still became very difficult. Running mostly, I found that I could run about fifteen miles per hour. It was a starling set of changes but livable.”

He leaned back sighing and ruffling his shaggy and unruly curls that had gone uncut for months. He probably looked like a member of his homeless network and his other form probably looked even worse for wear. “At the end of the first month, I was transformed in the light of the nearly full moon. I stopped being human and became something else, something - _other_.” He bit the inside of his cheek with a soft exhale through his nose. Inhaling and taking in the scents of his landlady and friend, he calmed, the wolf laying down in their presence. “I remained that way for two days and three nights and I thought that this,” he gestured to his human body, “Was a thing of the past. Then, on the fourth morning, I woke up, sore and tired. I still don’t remember much of that first night besides confusion and pain. When I came to the next morning, my mind had created another entity, something that manifested itself as a rationalization for my new instincts. I could control it, the wolf in my mind. It took a year here, in Baskerville, and a lot of self-exploration for me to realize that the Wolf and I are the same being. I carry the DNA of the wolf in my very genetic make-up. That psychopath who kidnapped you yesterday, Mrs. Hudson, he is also a werewolf and he is my younger brother. He was born that way and rejected because of it, raised by wolves. Literally. The Bite I received just unlocked my genetic potential.”

He scanned both pairs of eyes that were staring at him. Mrs. Hudson looked a little unsure but she smiled at him, nonetheless. Accepting of him to the very end, as was her grandmotherly way. John’s face was blank, his mind obviously working behind his eyes. His lips pursed. “You can change someone.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” the detective breathed, looking away, ashamed that he presented a danger to those around him. “The clear, silvery liquid that heals my wounds is primarily my DNA mingled with venom. If that were to enter an open wound on the night of a full moon-” He shuddered visibly. “I also carry it in saliva, my blood, it’s what has lowered my heartbeat, and in my sperm. I am aware of this even as a wolf and it heavily influences my actions.” His eyes rose to meet the eyes of his landlady who looked rather concerned. “I would not wish this on anyone nor would I willingly pass it off through an infected wound, a bite, or genetically to offspring. Never wanted them anyway.” His instincts rebelled against that but he shoved them back. The older woman across from him smiled sadly, her face softening in kindness. She’d seen him with Evelyn and could tell that the last statement hurt him deeply.

“The collar-” John’s militaristic voice cut into the moment. The wolf snapped his head around to look at the soldier.

“Mycroft’s idea. I wear it if I am going out somewhere, particularly in London,” he said quietly. “I can’t end up somewhere where I could get discovered. The collar, as much as I loathe it, will always get me back to Baker Street.”

“You saved Evelyn on her birthday,” the soldier whispered, his eyes unfocused as he remembered that terrifying moment of realization that his little girl was gone.

“Yes,” he responded quietly with a small smile. “I knew that it would take too long for the police to find her, that she’d be terrified, so I went. It was a full moon and I had no other choice. It’s the only time that I have to turn, just as I cannot hold that form on the new moon. But Evelyn’s birthday, that’s when my younger sibling made himself known and promised to ruin what I had.”

“That’s why you left.” John’s eyes finally met his, thankfulness oozing out of his face through his small smile, though sadness pooled in his eyes.

“Yes,” he breathed, his small, tight-lipped smile remaining in place.

The silence stretched between the three of them, all sitting and smiling to each other uneasily. Finally, Sherlock began to fidget, the pull of the Moon still weighing heavily on his limbs. John’s voice was soft when he broke the silence. “Can we...?” He swallowed visibly before restarting. “Would you be willing to show us?”

The detective’s stomach roiled, partially from hunger and partially from nerves. “I’m a bit worse for wear, John,” he murmured, looking at his hands. “I spent most of the last five months living feral on the moor, running from my problems, and someone shot me yesterday.”

“That was accidental!” the doctor said loudly, his face becoming apologetically serious. “The other wolf was going for your throat.”

“You were fighting, Sherlock?” the elderly woman said, startled. “That’s not like you.”

“I’ve done a lot of things that are not ‘like me’ in the last six and a half years. This ‘me’ is a very different ‘me’ than the one that chased a criminal cabbie through the London streets. Even different from the one that jumped from St. Bart’s and this ‘me’ will do anything to protect his Pack.” He felt like he was stating the obvious but maybe the humans needed him to be that obvious.

“Pack?” John asked, his eyebrows drawn together.

“Yes,” the wolf responded, cocking his head slightly to fix the shorter man in his gaze. “You, Evelyn, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft. You are my Pack, the people that I care the most about in all this world. I will protect you at all costs, even if that means revealing my secret.”

He eased himself off the worn leather of the couch and strode toward the bedrooms, knowing that he was going to terrify the two people who were seated on the couch. _There is no going back. This is it. They will either understand and accept this side of me or they will not want anything to do with me._ He slid into the room that his brother and Molly shared and closed the door nearly all the way, leaving a sliver of it open so that he could nose his way out again.

Breathing deeply, attempting to calm his raging heartbeat, he pulled his clothing off, his wounded shoulders aching and throbbing as his jacket came off, followed by his shirt. His trousers followed, he had not been wearing pants, and he folded the clothes, placing them on one of the chairs in bedroom before easing out of his shoes and socks. He released the breath that he had been holding and closed his eyes, reaching for the shift.

It seized him rapidly, pushed by the power of the Goddess who lurked on the horizon. He doubled over with a whine, his guts and viscera turning and twisting with in him. His bones broke and he fell to his side with a yelp even though his voice hadn’t changed yet, already allowing his canine instincts to overwhelm him and bring him over the edge.

The shift came quickly now, his nerves firing rapidly as his body rebelled and then adjusted. His tail erupted, quickly followed by his snout, his fangs snapping against the pain. Lastly, his fur sprouted, thick and matted, his winter coat clinging to the tangles in clumps. He lay on his side, his lungs heaving with the effort for a few seconds before he rose and shook himself, loosening his tense muscles. He stretched, his right shoulder complaining, though his left felt much better, the transition healing the bite wound completely.

With a huff, he steeled himself for his audience and nudged the door open. It creaked loudly in his ears, opening a bit wider as he slid his body out the small opening and into the hallway. His claws clicked on the polished wood, a strange sensation after so many months of dirt and gravel and grass, marking his uneven, limping steps. He stopped at the end of the hall, his head low and unsure, his ears pitched back as he looked at the soldier and the elderly woman.

Mrs. Hudson let out a small gasp, a hand flying to her mouth, her eyes widening in fright, while John’s well-trained eyes roved over his new form, calculating as his heartbeat accelerated. He shuffled his feet under the scrutiny before taking a couple of hesitant steps forward, his eyes still flicking between his landlady and his best friend, gaging their shifting emotions.

“Sherlock.” The sound of his name, spoken with such tenderness and pity, jerked his head up, his ears pitching forward as he looked directly at the woman who had spoken. She was slowly rising from the couch, muttering furiously under her breath about her hip. He remained frozen, watching intently, his tail twitching slowly.

Once she had reached her feet, with a bit of help from John, she met his gaze with a kind smile. “Sherlock, dear,” she said almost cheerfully, using the same voice that she used when she reminded him that she was not his maid, “You _are_ a bit worse for wear. Could you get a brush and some scissors for me? I’ll give you a trim.”

Glad of her acceptance, he gave a small wag of his tail and trotted over to one of the hall closets and scratched the door, unable to open it without thumbs. “Are they in there, dearie?” He nodded as the elderly woman came over, moving remarkably well for someone of her age with an arthritic hip. She opened the closet gently, causing him to backtrack before snaking around her carefully, not wanting to push her over with his rather large size and superior weight and mass. Molly had kept the grooming supplies in a basket on the floor, where he could reach, allowing him to tell her when he wanted to be cared for in that way. He was, after all, a wolf, not some house pet.

Carefully grabbing the handle in his strong jaws, he trotted back towards the sitting area, Mrs. Hudson trailing behind. He pulled out an old, rather ratty towel out of the supplies and attempted to spread it on the floor with little success. “Let me,” came the army doctor’s quiet voice as a hand grabbed the other end.

Unable to quell the urge, he fought against the tension, pulling back and bracing his hind legs, giving a playful growl, whipping his head to and fro. The blonde man dropped his end of the blanket in shock, causing him to lose his balance and fall backwards, his four legs scrambling on the carpet and the wooden floor. He whined, dropping the towel and nudging it toward John apologetically.

“Were you just _playing?_ ” the man asked, an odd, quirked smile on his face. “The great Sherlock Holmes playing tug of war? I thought I’d never see the day that you’d play another game with me. Especially after Cluedo...”

He growled, rumbling low in his throat at the mention of that heinous board game. The father laughed, spreading the blanket and then digging through the rest of the supplies. He was able to find two brushes and offered one, and the couch, to Mrs Hudson, rising and moving to the floor on the wolf’s other side. The pair worked out the loose hair and the last bits of his winter coat, making him feel about ten pounds lighter. Shortly after the brushing ended, Mrs. Hudson trimmed the remaining fur back a bit, tightening the strangely curly coat as John idly scratched his ears, sending his leg twitching.

“You really stink too, Sherlock. It’s the worst you’ve ever been, mate,” he muttered, his nose wrinkling as his petting summoned his pheromones and natural scent as well as the scent of the moor ( _wild grasses and shrubs, oak trees, calm, stagnant water and pond scum_ ). “And that includes the time you arrived back in the flat covered in blood with that bloody harpoon. I’ll get the water ready for a bath.”

The consulting detective growled, not wanting to bathe. “No,” John responded, the captain edging his way into the conversation. “This is not an option.”

Sighing, the younger man stood patiently, waiting for Mrs. Hudson to finish before trotting after his ex-flatmate grudgingly. He did want a bath, he just didn’t want to give John the satisfaction of knowing that.

He stopped, halfway to the bathroom before changing direction and heading to the hall closet again with a shrill yip. “Oi! Sherlock! You’re not getting out of this!” The soldier’s voice grew louder as he left the bathroom and the thunder of the running tap, his steps leading him to the hallway. The wolf nudged the door open with his nose and sniffed, digging further into the closet before tugging on the cuff of the sleeve on a stereotypical yellow raincoat. “No,” the man answered flatly, “I refuse to wear that like some hapless bloke in a sitcom.” Sherlock continued to tug, the texture of the vinyl coat strange against his tongue. He turned his head slightly, not releasing the sleeve, to give the doctor his best cocked ‘eyebrow’ and a low growl.

The blonde man sighed, and hand rubbing his face. “Fine, but only if you get in the tub.”

He dropped the cuff with a wolf-like grin, his tongue lolling out of his teeth and flew past the man as quickly as his injured shoulder would allow, skittering on the wooden floorboards and then on the tile of the bathroom. He gathered his strength into his hind legs and launched himself over the edge of the tub with a satisfying splash, the warm, soapy water flying everywhere. Enjoying the warmth, he laid down on his belly, keeping his head raised above the undrinkable liquid as it loosened his weary and aching muscles.

John’s footsteps, joined by those of Mrs. Hudson, found him in that state of complete bliss, water dripping from the walls and soap pooling on the floor. “What the hell?” the soldier breathed, irritated, his eyes tightening around the edges.

“It seems like the rain gear is necessary and not just because Sherlock thought it’d be fun to laugh at the pair of us,” the wise Mrs. Hudson quipped. “I’ll go get some fresh towels, shall I?” She walked carefully from the room, mindfully avoiding the puddles. When she reached the door she turned and fixed the large, dark brown wolf in her gaze. “Just this once, young man. I am not your housekeeper.”

The toothy smile that was shot her way was rather unsettling but it caused her to chuckle nonetheless, all parties very much aware that the older woman would do anything for her two ‘boys.’

Sherlock stood, his coat heavy with water and what smelled like Mycroft’s shampoo, and shook, unable to resist the urge to rid his body of the extra weight. _There is a reason why Molly always washed me outside or in the laboratory baths. Less of a mess that way_. Still the look of annoyance on John’s face brought him back to the old days, when the doctor would yell at him for the most absurd reasons. Where else was he supposed to keep his body parts than in the fridge and freezer? The cabinets were perfect places for his mould cultures. His violin helped him think - he didn’t care if Schönberg at 3am made it hard to sleep, he wasn’t tired anyway.

He leaned into the other man’s hands, his skilled, dextrous doctor’s fingers working through the tangles while exploring his new body. He was careful around his shoulders, wary of the injuries that he had received less than twenty-four hours ago, and quickly rinse the soap off of his face, shielding his eyes from both the water and the shampoo. His nose filled with it, though, causing him to sneeze, the sound making John jump, then chuckle.

The process done, the water and suds swirling down the drain, he shook himself one last time. The humans insisted on towel drying him, pulling his fur against it’s natural lay, he tenderly licked them, his only way of showing thanks besides his tail, which had not stopped wagging for more than a few seconds since Mrs. Hudson had first risen from the couch.


	25. Mycroft

“You’re telling me that there are _thirty_ people in hospital with wounds that have miraculously healed. Overnight.”

_Yes, sir._

“And you let them leave, didn’t you?” the British Government hissed into his mobile as his car sped towards Baskerville. The other end of the line was silent, confirming his query. “Tell me you have their identification information at least.”

_Some but not all._

“Track them down. I want them shipped to the Island as soon as possible. And get me the other ones. I’ll be in contact in a couple of days. I **expect** success.” Not waiting for a reply, he hung up with a frustrated sigh.

While Sherrinford had not kept his promise to attack their mutual parents, he had not withheld the previous evening. Thirty people were now werewolves, whether they were aware of it, or not. Thirty people who were going to be incredibly confused and highly dangerous in a month. His thoughts instantly flitted to his brother, the treatise locked in his lowest desk drawer, and his back-up plan that he had just enacted. He could not, however, keep thirty people off the coast of Ireland against their wills, even if it was for their own good and the good of the country. For the good of his beloved little brother.

The car slowed, nearing and getting cleared of the checkpoint gate, before parking. He heard the driver exit and moved to the edge of the seat, the door opening to allow him to exit. Customary umbrella swinging at his side, he strode into the building, his access card opening all the doors in his path. As much as he loathed to admit it, the lab was becoming rather home-like. Molly had taken to staying there for long stretches of time, claiming that it helped Sherlock to have someone familiar close by. Especially around the new moon, when he was his most vulnerable. Or at least what he considered to be his most vulnerable since he had gone feral, letting the wolf rule his every day.

His key slid easily into the lock and the door gave way with a gentle push. He was instantly greeted by a rather large, dark brown wolf standing in his path, guarding the door. Territorial and overprotective. The wolf quickly backed up with a huff and a single, resigned tail wag. “Lovely to see you too, Brother,” he replied, placing his umbrella in the stand by the door, a quick glance alerting him to the fact that his sibling was not alone. “How are you doing Mrs. Hudson? John?”

“Good to know that you still come home to your Molly every night, Mycroft Holmes,” the older woman said with a small smile. “I’m sure that it makes her happy.”

“I tend to think so,” he said quietly, turning to the small gathering on his antique leather couches. The doctor was seated beside his landlady, both of them with mugs of tea in their hands. The other couch was occupied by the expanse of the ( _thankfully_ ) newly clean wolf. “Get off the couch, Sherlock,” he commanded, his eyes narrowing.

The detective’s dark head shot up off the dark leather cushions, and returned the stare, his eyes wide and innocent. He whined, rubbing his body over the surface, staking a claim. “Ever the child, aren’t you?”

John laughed at the scene of the two brothers much to the statesman’s irritation. “I’m glad that you find this humorous Doctor,” he responded curtly. “I should have you know that I tracked Sherrinford’s activities from last evening.” The blonde man set his mug down on the coffee table with a solid thunk. His brother sat up, jumping off of his newly scented couch. Mrs. Hudson muttered a soft, “Oh, goodness.”

He strode forward purposefully. “Molly needs to know the rest of it, and I am loathe to repeat myself,” he said, “But know now that our parents are safe. No threats reached them last night.” He said the last half of his statement while making eye contact with the wolf, who nodded once in response with a soft, low growl and a couple of solid thumps of his tail, acknowledging the information and glad of it.

Changing the subject, he rose and strode to the couch that the wolf had turned into a recliner. Hesitantly, in an attempt to comfort, he stuck out a hand. The coarse yet silky fur of his brother’s head rose to meet his fingers for a split second. “Are you planning on staying that way tonight?” he asked quietly, only loud enough for his sibling to hear, not wishing to push his sibling one way or another. He had just revealed his secret to the people he lived with and was vulnerable. The dark brown, curly head nodded once with a soft whine, pressing itself into his palm once more. “Hmm,” he said with a small smile, “Evelyn will be so happy to have you back, _Willie_.”

The detective growled darkly, yanking his head away in an angry huff. He did not approve of the reminder of his unused first name. Unfortunately for him, that is how the child knew him, so there was no changing it now. “Dinner?” he asked, willing to play the host until his fiancee returned with the youngest member of their rather interesting family unit. Pack, as Sherlock called it.

__________________________________________________

When the little girl came bounding it, dragging an exhausted looking Molly behind her, even the unfeeling ‘Iceman’ had to smile warmly. She was instantly greeted by Sherlock, who leapt from his spot on the couch and flew to her, only a slight hitch in his stride left from his wound from the previous evening.

“Willie!” the child shrieked with such joy, he could tell why his usually reserved brother was skidding to a halt in front of her, already nuzzling her, covering the small human with his scent. Her fingers wound through his newly trimmed fur. His brother shot a quick glance to John, sitting patiently as his ears swiveled. Questioning.

John strode over to his little girl and stroked the top of his best friend’s shaggy head. “Isn’t this a wonderful surprise, Darling?” he said, giving a small nod to the wolf. The dark head instantly went back to its nuzzling, his pink tongue flicking out to catch her flushed cheek. She giggled, squirming, though her arms tightened around the thick, strong neck of the wolf. His brother snuffled in response, inhaling the scents of his adopted family, the man and the child that meant the most to him. That was obvious. _But does Sherlock know that?_

_____________________________________________________

Dinner was consumed in a relatively happy manner, John’s eyes widening at the shear amount of raw steak that the consulting detective consumed in less than five minutes. The more frightening part, in his own opinion, was the length of the teeth and how wide those bone-crushing jaws opened when his younger sibling licked his jowls after he had finished.

After the meal was finished, the women collected the dishes and began to wash. John and Sherlock, as Willie, prepared the little one for bed with her complaining all the way. It was only after she was allowed to bring the wolf that she complied to all of her father’s demands. The government official made his way to his office and sat down at his desk, booting up his computer to check his emails.

authorized@uk.gov 30 ATTACKED, NONE RECOVERED

With a wince, he opened the email.

_All 30 people attacked by animal last night are now missing. We have put out Missing Persons reports and searched CCTV. All gone without trace. Connections of victims: All male, 21-40 years of age, no family, living in and around Dartmoor and Devonshire._

He exhaled slowly, releasing his frustration. It was times like these that he wanted a cigarette, his lungs and fingers itched for it. He did not reach for one, however. The smoke ironically bothered his brother’s now sensitive nose. Molly was thrilled that he was no longer able to smoke and he did want her to remain happy, proud of him even. That didn’t make him want the cigarette any less, though.

He pushed back and pulled a set of keys from his pocket and fit the appropriate key into the lock on the bottom drawer. Sighing, he turned the small bit of metal in his hand, hearing a slight click of the mechanism. He closed his eyes and pulled the drawer open. His manuscript was still there, untouched after all this time. He pulled the volume out, regretting not binding it as some of the final pages fell back into the drawer. Reaching back in, he picked up the remaining sheets of paper and replaced them in the manuscript before shuffling the pages into a neat stack. He ran a hand over the cover page. _The Declaration of the Rights of Werewolf-kind, has a certain ring to it, though it’s sad that I need to use it now._

He got up, bringing the stack of paper with him, and strode purposefully into the sitting room. The humans had gathered, Molly occupying the couch where his brother had been hours earlier while the other two had returned to their usual spots on the opposite couch. “Where’s Willie?” he emphasized the W, knowing that Sherlock would hear him regardless of where he was in the flat.

“Curled around my daughter as if she was his own,” John said an odd smile on his face. “Who knew that he liked children?”

“It’s the form,” Molly said matter-of-factly. “He’s much more emotional as a wolf. I think it’s his instincts, particularly those to protect and nurture, that just emphasize that he’s a man, not a machine.”

“A logical observation,” the British Government agreed, taking a seat in the arm chair, knowing that the detective would go to the couch that he had blatantly claimed when he returned. “I’m going to begin. I’m sure that my brother will join us when he is able.”

He dropped the treatise on the coffee table with a bang, sending some of the tea in John’s cup splashing onto the smooth surface. He waited a beat, allowing the other people to read the title of his masterwork, before explaining. “I wrote this during the first four months. I had hoped to never have to use it, but, with the information that my intel gave me today, there can be no avoiding it.” He leaned back against the overstuffed velvet cushion. “Sherlock is no longer alone. And while my brother is an overgrown house pet, for the most part, and he controls where and when he transforms, and maintains his rational thoughts, he is no longer alone.” He sighed, raising his head a bit in a display of dominance and position. “Sherrinford was busy last night. While he did not make it to Oxford and our parents, he did attack thirty people, all of whom are now missing. Thirty men between the ages of 21 and 40 from Devon and Dartmoor.”

“They’re missing?” the doctor reiterated pointedly. “What happened Mycroft? You control the eyes of the country and you lost thirty people?” His voice had dropped to a hiss, aware that his child was trying to sleep in the next room.

“I was busy protecting the people who were supposed to be targeted, Doctor. My people are at fault for this, but I guarantee you, I am doing everything within my power to get them back.” He was practically growling now, his voice low and hard. He did not appreciate his authority and power questioned. “It can only be assumed that Sherrinford has taken them and placed them somewhere until the first change. Werewolf history is spotty at best and it is unknown if any of the people who were infected have a family history. It is possible that none of them will survive. It is also possible that they all may survive and we’ll have an army of wolves to deal with. In either case, the prerogative is to find them and neutralize them ahead of the coming full moon. That gives us a month. Once one is found, they will be transported to a facility where they cannot hurt anyone once transformed. Afterwards, they will be trained to be functioning members of society and I will launch my campaign. Unfortunately, the time for discretion has passed and secrets can no longer be wholly secret.”

“What are you suggesting, Myc?” Molly asked worried as she glanced towards the hallway, waiting for the wolf to appear at any moment.

“I am suggesting a registry, identification markers, safe change zones. A way to monitor and regulate who is selected for transformation because, let’s face it Molly, there are people out there that will want what Sherlock and Sherrinford have and they will seek it out by any means necessary.”

“That’s going to lead to discrimination,” Mrs. Hudson cut in, her voice harsh. “It could lead to a group of people being utterly suppressed to the point of not being welcome within their own homes, their own families. People, good people, just like Sherlock, are going to lose everything because of what you’re suggesting. They’re going to become subhuman. Do you really want that for your brother?”

His brow furrowed slightly, seeing the landlady’s point. It was one that he had considered many times. Registration and identification would lead to alienation but it would also protect the humans that lived in England. As much as he was bound to duty for his family, his country came first.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, if it means protecting people like you and Molly and John and little Evelyn, then yes, that is what I want. Sherlock has referred to his lycanthropy as a condition, a disease. We have spent months attempting to find medicinal ways to prevent shifts from occurring. If someone who is living with it sees it as a disease, then it must be handled as such. People with medical conditions wear identification, it is notated on government forms, this would be no different. As for the discrimination,” he thumped his hand on the sheaf of paper, “ _This_ will prevent it. It is filled with civil rights. There may be people who will try to deny them what is theirs but those people will be removed, jailed and fined.”

He looked up to find the wolf looking at him quizzically from the hallway, his multi-colored eyes watching him intently. He directed his closing argument to the one that it would effect the most. “People are people, regardless of if they happen to become something else once a month. Their basic and natural rights as human beings cannot be denied. Precautions, however, need to be placed upon them for when they are most dangerous and most infectious. Those precautions would only come into effect on the days and the night of the full moon and any time a werewolf shifts where there are people present. The registry would only be known to the government and placed on official documents only. Identification tags can be hidden by clothing. It will not change a single aspect of their lives, not if I can help it.”

The wolf nodded once before turning around and retreating back into the darkened hallway.


	26. Sherlock

**Two Years Later**

He watched his reflection as his fingers deftly closed the buttons on his shirt, covering his knotted bullet scar and rattling his identification tags. The metal was warm against his skin - it had to be, he was not allowed to remove them. To the casual observer, they looked like military dog tags. Upon closer investigation, however, one would notice that the first tag bore only the image of a crescent moon ( _Ludicrous really, as the crescent moon has no effect on me whatsoever_ ) while the second, tucked behind the first had his information stamped upon it.

HOLMES, W. SHERLOCK S.

221B BAKER STREET

WESTMINSTER, LONDON, UK

LUPUS SAPIEN

dob: 1/6/1976

dot: 1/1/2012

Everything anyone needed to know, presented across his chest. While he had maintained secrecy surrounding his status, he still loathed that it could be easily made public. A simple slip up at a crime scene could lead them to falling out from under his shirt, exposed, exposing him.

He turned to look back at his bedmate, the picture of perfect innocence, blonde hair sticking up every which way on the pillow, arms open, searching for him. With a soft smile, he exited, closing the door behind him softly, and made his way into the kitchen.

The smell of sausage, ham, and bacon and the crackle of eggs met his sensitive nose and ears and made his mouth water. He whined, starving after the previous evening, and pulled out a chair, sitting down stiffly, his joints popping. Greedily, he swept about half of the contents of the table onto his plate and began to shovel the meat into his mouth, his stomach gurgling. He next reached for the coffee, pouring the contents into a cup and drinking it black, cringing at the bitterness but needing the straight caffeine to function today. Three eggs were slid onto his plate, causing him to jump and look up. “Thank you,” he murmured, his baritone rough from the ill treatment it had received the previous night.

“It’s the least I could do,” John replied. “After all, you did have a rather long night chasing after Evie about the park.” The man smiled before turning back to the stove, cracking another egg onto the still sizzling skillet.

“You know,” he said through mouthfuls of food, “That there is no other way I’d want to spend the Full Moon, John.”

_The change came swiftly on nights like last evening - not a cloud in the sky, the silvery orb hanging like an enormous coin on the horizon, making the stars mere pinpricks. The pain was minimal, the call of the Goddess too strong to resist, every break and twist feeling like a small liberation instead of torture. It had taken him in his flat, the door slightly ajar so he could escape, so he could go to Her._

_Mycroft had arrived shortly after moonrise to maintain his charade, leaving ‘Willie’ with the Watsons to be ‘dog-sat.’ He buckled the collar, now worn and soft with use, the thick band hiding the other pair of tags. His hand had strayed over them, his pet project that had gone horribly wrong, an apology on his lips. Not wanting or needing to hear his elder brother’s regrets, he licked the inside of his wrist, feeling the pulse, strong and steady, just like Mycroft. Then he’d trotted out the door and up the stairs, forcing the statesman to follow._

_Evelyn was thrilled to see him this way, of course. She did not know, she would never know if he could help it, not after the way the other wolves were treated._

_(Many of them, all turned by Sherrinford and his minions, were forced to spend their Moons locked away in cages in secure facilities, feral and out of control. That had been what his younger sibling had wanted, he assumed - taking strong, unknowing loners, and turning them, then leaving them without so much as an explanation. More showed up every Full Moon, to be catalogued and registered and ‘rehabilitated,’ as Mycroft insisted on calling it. Therapy, training, lessons in what little history they had on the subject, all in an attempt to recreate the lives that those people, all young men, had lost. There was no going back from this, however, and, it appeared that having werewolf in your blood before the bite made a vast amount of difference._

_He had spent many of his Full Moons in the facilities, trying to negotiate, trying to help them win the battle with their instincts. He had little else to show for it than new scars and a battered ego. Those wolves were pure instinct and no logic. They remembered nothing or very little the next morning besides the pain of the shift. The worst part for him was that they were good people, for the most part. Unassuming and terrified of what they did, what they became. It was that fear of themselves that had destroyed Mycroft’s legislation. If they had had some semblance of control, or self-acceptance, the human population would not fear them. Instead, many were jobless, disowned, forsaken with no place to go but the facilities or working jobs that no one else wanted. So they did, becoming lab rats for the cure that didn’t exist, or working the early morning/late night shifts as maintenance workers or worse. Their educations forgotten because they lost control of themselves for one night, once a month. It was too much, too depressing, and so he had started spending the Moon somewhere where his condition would make him and those around him happy - with John and Evelyn.)_

_He greeted the little girl happily, licking her pink face from chin to hair line, marking her as his. “What do you have planned for tonight, Evelyn?” Mycroft asked, knowing that the detective liked knowing and having a plan._

_“We’re going to the park,” the little angel had said enthusiastically. “Willie likes the park.”_

_“Oh, yes,” the older man had responded, watching the dark brown tail wag enthusiastically, pleased that he was going out, “He loves the park.” He turned his focus to John and said, “Well, I must be off. Please do take care of him for me.”_

_A sad, reminiscent smile played across the doctor’s weathered face. “When have I not, Mycroft?”_

_“Goodbye, Uncle Myc!” the little girl had practically cheered, pulling a bit on his collar to get him into the flat. He had followed. He knew he would follow the little girl anywhere. He loved her, just as he loved her father._

_The hours spent at the park were fun. He was able to expend the excess energy that the Moon gave him, chasing the five year old on her short, but growing legs, or, more often than not, a tennis ball. The thrill of the chase hummed in his veins, just as it did when he was on the moor or when he was chasing a suspect through the crowded London streets, and he loved it, allowing his instincts to play for a bit before reining them in and returning home for the night. As usual, he had been allowed to sleep beside Evelyn, her fingers wrapped in his curly coat until morning had taken it away._

The morning after was always bittersweet for him. He knew that Evelyn loved him when he was human, she told him as much, but it was obvious to him, and probably to everyone who knew his secret, that she loved the Wolf more. It hurt knowing that she’d never know that it was him, but, at the same time, he was worried about what her reaction would be. And he couldn’t lose her. Not after he had nearly lost everyone else.

_“Where are you going, Sherlock?” his mother had asked when he had risen from Christmas dinner abruptly. “You haven’t finished your dinner.”_

_“I’ll eat later,” he had muttered, hastily attempting to leave the room, crowded by his extended family and inwardly cursing this holiday and what it entailed._

_“NO, you will not!” the woman had ordered. “Sit down now, Sherlock Holmes, or so help me!”_

_He could feel her, Diana minutes from rising, singing her song to him, humming through his blood stream. “Not tonight, Mother,” he responded through clenched teeth._

_Mycroft, his hand clasped in Molly’s smaller one, had jumped in. “Just let him go, Mummy. He’ll be no fun to have around if he’s just going to sulk.”_

_“It’s bloody Christmas!” their grandfather had practically shouted. “A time for family, not galavanting off on some murder investigation.”_

_“I’m not feeling well, if you must know. It’s not because of a bloody murder investigation!” He was practically snarling, his insides beginning to clench in preparation. (Two minutes maximum). “ **Go back to drinking your sherry** and talking politics from the forties that **no one cares about any more!** ” _

_“Sherlock,” Molly chimed in softly, her eyes wide as she looked out the window behind him. “You don’t look well, you should go.”_

_“I second the motion, Molly,” his brother had said firmly._

_“He looks fine,” an aunt said fervently. “Now sit down before you ruin Christmas!”_

_Unable to help himself, anger flushing his system along with the call of the Moon, he had reached under his shirt and produced the tags. “What do military tags have anything to do with this outburst, Son?” a great-uncle who had served in the first Afghan War queried._

_“They’re not military tags and you know it,” he snapped, turning to make his exit. (One minute.)_

_The room fell silent and still. Pushing past immobile family members, many of whom flinched as he brushed by them, he sprinted for the doors, tossing clothing as he went. His jacket wound up on the hallway floor, his shoes at either end of the living room, his shirt by the front door, and his trousers outside as the Goddess struck him. Adrenaline still kicking through his body, the transformation was mercifully swift._

_“Get my gun!” He spun around to find an audience in place. His hackles rose but he didn’t growl, not wanting to provoke the uncle who had called for his weapon. Backing away, ears pinned, tail tucked between his legs, he watched his mother, who had reminded him eleven months previous that she still loved him, faint and his father’s jaw tighten. (Apparently, hearing it and seeing it were two very different things). Mycroft and Molly stood, arms wrapped around each other, looking worried and forlorn, pity written over their features. “I’m so sorry,” the pathologist had mouthed to him. “We still love you.”_

_His brother had nodded, his mouth a grim line. “Go.” So he ran, fleeing from the people who had claimed to love him, even with his insufferable personality and genius intellect. But this, this disease that had claimed so many people, that was unforgivable._

_When he returned the following morning, his mother was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs in the foyer. Her hair was a mess and there were dark smudges under her eyes making it blatantly obvious that, despite the dressing gown wrapped about her person, she had not slept. His clothing was folded into a neat pile next to her on the bottom step._

_He stood there, head down, though his eyes were still fixed on the older woman, naked as the day she bore him with only his hands to maintain his modesty. For once in his life, he didn’t know what to say. The smells of his family had dissipated somewhat, telling him that they had left shortly after his departure the previous evening. He had known that even without the help of his nose - three uncles and four cousins had attempted to hunt him under the moonlight - fox hunting with the original prey if the histories were to be believed. His father was in his study, the door shut, probably trying to read some ancient text about lycanthropy and how to cure your child of it. Mycroft and Molly were still in bed - they had spent half the night listening to the stray gunshots and hoping that he’d come back to the safety of the house._

_“Sherlock.” His head snapped up at the murmur, seeing the tears that had cut rivulets across his mother’s face beginning anew, playing at the corners of her eyes. Her face was unreadable._

_“If I could have my clothes, I’ll go. You won’t have to see me again,” he said, his voice scratchy, as he looked back at the floor. The silence that followed stretched on for what seemed like hours, neither party moving._

_“Why would I want that?” The tears had begun falling, causing her voice to crack. “You’re my baby boy and I-I love you.” He inhaled, raising his head to look at her again. Her words were sincere; he could see that, he had heard it, he could feel it hanging in the air and permeating her very scent. He took a step forward. She flinched. Her love was not enough._

_“I know,” he whispered, “But I don’t belong here. Not anymore.” The wolf in him sought to comfort her, show her that he wasn’t a beast, that he’d never hurt her. The man did not, the wounds still too fresh. “It’s easier for the both of us if we’re not reminded of last night.” He took another step forward. She didn’t move._

_Gathering his courage, he strode to the stairs and bent, picking up the pile. A warm, kind hand brushed the side of his face, running into his curls. He froze for a split second before strengthening his resolve and turning back towards the open door. He paused in the doorway and said, back over his shoulder, “I’ll phone you. Happy Boxing Day,” and left, the gasping sobs of his mother ringing in his ears._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Christmas scene was probably my favorite to write!


	27. Sherlock

He winced at the memory, gripping his coffee cup tighter as he took another deep draft of the black liquid within, and fell into another memory.

_Four moons ago, Evelyn was visiting John’s parents, both of whom had taken more of an interest in his life after his wife had died. Guilt, mostly, he was sure, but they did love the little girl and that was all that mattered. John was with him in 221B, absentmindedly tossing a dog toy about the flat and playing tug while watching crap telly, because he had not wanted to be alone. It was Valentine’s Day, a ridiculous romantic notion that loving someone should be celebrated on one day, and the poor man, while not unhandsome, was having little luck in the dating field. Why, he was relatively unsure._

_John was a wonderful mate. He could cook, he cleaned, he had a healthy sexual appetite if he number of hand jobs he gave himself late at night was any indication. He had a beautiful and smart child, and a steady, dependable job. There was nothing wrong with John, of that he was certain. It was the women that were the problem, though he wasn’t going to complain. No girlfriend meant that he only had to share with one other person, a person whom he also shared with John._

_He had heard the sirens long before the doctor, who was too absorbed in the derisively unrealistic Being Human to notice. He rose from the couch, shook out his coat and moved to the door, scratching it gently with a paw. “Do you need to go out, Sherlock?” he asked, half paying attention, his eyes still glued to the screen. He whined in response, seeing the flashing blue lights play across the ceiling. He **had** wanted out before the police arrived but now, he didn’t have much of a choice. He ran to his room and grabbed his collar before returning to the sitting room and dropping in into the soldier’s lap. “Alright, alright,” he groaned fumbling a bit with the leather as he tucked the other tags underneath the wide, red band. “Keep your trousers on.” _

_Lestrade. His ears pricked forward as the lights turned off outside and the steady stride of the inspector echoed as he entered the building, using his spare key. The smell of hazelnuts and gunpowder unmistakeable, even in the steady rain that had been falling since the early afternoon. He was alone, so not a drugs bust then. He had had one three months back for no particular reason except to tick him off, the smell of the force clinging to every inch of the flat drove him mad (Though Lestrade didn’t know that). He supposed that the fake bust was due to the fact that he had withheld information regarding the last case he’d worked. He had caught the correct killer while protecting the accused: an unregistered werewolf. If the man had wanted to remain unregistered (and for that, he really couldn’t blame him), he was not going to divulge the information to the police. The uptick in unjust arrests involving registered werewolves was exponential, public fear driving behind the trend._

_The knock on the door seemed to ricochet around the flat. John jumped and turned of the telly. He shot the wolf a worried look. He nodded, laying down on the carpet with a sigh. This was going to happen eventually. The soldier rose, straightened his shoulders, inadvertently sending his comforting scent into the air about him and opened the door. “Oh, Greg, hello,” he said cheerfully with a small smile._

_“Where’s Sherlock?” The DI strode in, scanning about the flat, the couch blocking the large dark brown wolf from his sight._

_“He’s a bit um...busy at the moment,” John replied hesitantly, making Sherlock roll his eyes. “Do you need him for something?”_

_“Yeah, John, I do.” The grey-haired man turned back to the shorter blonde one. “He withheld vital information regarding a case three months back. The accused was a werewolf, unregistered. Now he’s missing, along with about six others, registered ones. I need to know where they went, and, more importantly, why the most brilliant man in the world would keep that information from me. He can’t tell me he didn’t know. He most certainly did. He also knows that it’s bloody illegal for one of those lupus sapiens to wander about unregistered. They’re dangerous, John. So get him out here.”_

_“Wait a minute, **mate,** ” the captain edging into the older man’s usually good natured voice, “Did you stop to think that it’s no one’s business to know if someone else has that condition? Did you also stop to think that the registered wolves would be at a facility tonight? It’s a full moon, Greg, despite the clouds. Maybe he made friends and they brought him to were they shift. After all, there are only so many jobs that they get hired for these days. He could have run into them at work, or a support group, or something. Check back in with him tomorrow. I’ll bet he’s home, sleeping off tonight. And, if it bothers you so much, bring a bloody registration form.” _

_The DI sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re right, mate. I’m sorry.”_

_“No harm done,” the doctor responded, heading to the kitchen and opening a cupboard. “Tea?”_

_“Yes, please,” the other man responded, sounding weary. “It’s going to be a long night. Bloody Mycroft Holmes has us running on all cylinders in case there are unregistered wolves running about London. Why he thinks that there are any - HOLY SHITE! THAT’S A HUGE DOG!” The man had rounded the corner of the couch and finally seen him._

_It pleased him to know end that the policeman had jumped a good meter in the air at the sight of his rather impressive size. He raised his head and thumped his tail on the ground a couple of times in a friendly wag. “He’s very friendly,” John replied, bent over the sink, filling the kettle with water from the tap. “Name’s Willie. He’s Mycroft and Molly’s. Sherlock’s watching him while they’re at hospital.”_

_“That’s big news, that,” Lestrade had said over his shoulder as he bent, reaching a hand out tentatively. “Twins, and at Molly’s age!”_

_“She’s not that old, Greg. Thirty-six is a respectable age to have children.”_

_“Yes, well,” the other man sighed as he stroked the wolf’s oddly coarse and smooth fur in his ruff. Sherlock leaned into the sensation, jiggling his collar and tags lightly. “My ex-wife told me she was done at thirty-six.” He chuckled softly, his eyes meeting those that belonged to ‘Willie.’ “You’re a handsome fellow,” he practically crooned, “Massive but gentle. Funny how that works out.”_

_“He loves having his ears scratched,” John called over the screech of the kettle and the click of the burner as it turned off. The DI’s hand shifted to the back of his left ear, causing his right hind leg to twitch in response, his whole body shaking and thrilling at the sensation. One does not respect being able to scratch behind their ears until their arms no longer reach up there. He whined, rolling slightly onto his back to get closer to the fingers that were bringing him such great pleasure._

_“What’s this?” The fingers slowed as the man’s other hand moved to his ruff and picked something up. His tags. His eyes widened and his whine shifted to one of fright. He was vulnerable, lying on his back, a hand pressed behind his head, the other over his neck. The man read aloud softly. “Holmes, W. Sherlock S.” His brown eyes flickered up and down the body before meeting the heterochromic orbs of the wolf. His human eyes in another face. The grey haired man backed away, jaw dropped, eyes wide with shock._

_His eyes flickered to the man standing behind the inspector, begging him to explain. John Watson walked around the very still Lestrade, set the mugs on the coffee table and offered the man a hand up. “I think it’s time we talked, Greg.” Numbly (in partial shock), the grey-haired man rose and took John’s seat. The doctor handed him his tea and wrapped a blanket about his shoulders and sat in his chair. The notion made the wolf want to growl, but he quickly bit the urge back, not wanting Lestrade’s prejudice to deepen further. He slowly made his way over to the grey, leather chair and laid down beside it with a huff, his head covering the soldier’s left foot. The toes beneath him wiggled encouragingly as John began._

_“The reason Sherlock isn’t here is because he is here. Just not looking the way he normally does. He’s registered, if that’s what you’re wondering. The first one, I believe.” He nodded, licking the other man’s ankle. “He was bitten when he was away in Serbia, working for Mycroft.”_

_“That was five years ago,” Greg whispered, his eyes widening. Sherlock whined, nudging John’s foot to urge the correction._

_“Six.”_

_“Six?! We’ve had this legislation for a year and a half and there have been werewolves in London for six years?”_

_“Greg, in Sherlock’s defense, as you can see, he’s still very much himself, if not generally more agreeable this way. He’s not a danger to anyone. This form is the same as his other. It’s different with the other wolves.”_

_“He bit them, did he? Thought it be a fun laugh did you, you sociopath?” The policeman was glaring at the wolf over his tea. Sherlock growled darkly, exposing his teeth. A rather frightened, then pensive expression crossed the older man’s face. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I-I...” He looked up at John who nodded encouragingly. “He’s still there. You’re still there.” He nodded once and thumped his tail. “If he’s still there, then why are we doing all this? Facilities and shit? He’s here, having a grand old time watching crap telly until I showed up!”_

_“Yes, well, here’s the complicated bit,” the doctor said, shifting in the chair, rubbing his scent into the furniture further. “The Holmes family has a history of lycanthropy. Though, it comes from your Mum’s side, right?” The huffed his agreement before John continued. “So not Holmes, but that’s besides the point. Because of his genetic predisposition, we - Mycroft, Molly, Sherlock, and myself - speculate that it makes the transition from human to wolf easier and helps him maintain his mental faculties, recalling that he’s human, etcetera. The Turned wolves don’t appear to share this trait, and thus lose control on the Full Moon to the baser instincts that come with the form. That makes them dangerous. We’ve been testing training techniques and using various methods to try to get them to remember who they are, or to at least remember what happens when they change, and, recently some of our oldest patients have made headway. But, for now, and until the attacks stop and we are able to capture the wolf behind this, those other, Turned wolves can be very dangerous on the night of the full moon.”_

_“You know who’s behind this?” Lestrade leaned forward, ever the detective._

_“We suspect that it’s Sherrinford Holmes, Sherlock and Mycroft’s-”_

_“The other one,” the policeman breathed, setting his mug down. “I’ve heard about him from Mycroft. Why would he do this?”_

_“He was born a wolf for some reason. He was given away to a pack on the continent shortly after birth to be raised among his own kind. Needless to say, he’s bitter. Thinks that if he turns enough wolves, he can start his own pack and make humans submissive to wolves. Bring him power over the people who hurt him most.”_

_“Then why turn Sherlock?”_

_“Isn’t that the question?"_


	28. Lestrade

Despite his initial misgivings about the Lupus Sapien, as Mycroft Holmes had dubbed the werewolves, he had to admit that the heightened senses had made Sherlock all the more brilliant. They had also made him a bit less grating when around other people, though that may have been a personal goal of his in an attempt to draw less attention to himself. His secret was a rather tenuous one.

The consulting detective was currently flitting about what appeared to have been a rather gristly murder from the previous evening. Two bodies, one mangled beyond recognition (Molly will have to run dentals), the other half consumed by what appeared to be an animal. From the posturing Sherlock had displayed as soon as he was within sniffing distance confirmed his worst fear: This was a werewolf attack.

“Sherlock,” he said, trying to make his inquiry plain without stating exactly what he was thinking.

The younger man was kneeling on the carpet, his knee just outside the ring of blood and gore. He was observing the mangle remains first, probably because he already knew everything about the other, half-eaten one at first glance. “Male. Twenty-nine to Thirty-two. Bitten last month. Did not survive the transformation.” The statement was followed by shat sounded like a “Lucky bastard,” but he wasn’t quite sure. “He’s less than halfway there,” the werewolf continued, running a gloved hand under the man’s lips to expose sharp, pointed teeth and a split in his lip that ran up to the strangely flat end of his nose. His hands next found canine ears, tips pointed and drawing upwards, originally hidden under a mop of long hair. The hand bore claws, stunted fingers and no thumb. The opposite elbow was bent the opposite way. Tugging on the baggy jumper, the detective revealed fur, the same dull chestnut as the hair on the man’s head, running down his spine and under his trousers, which Sherlock pulled back to reveal about four inches of tail.

Dropping the fabric back into place, he turned slightly, sniffing the other remains while reaching into his Belstaff for his magnifying glass and a ruler. Both were brought to one of the tears on the woman’s neck. “Female. Twenty-six to twenty-nine. Girlfriend. Killed by him, it would seem. The size and shape of these tears match the size of the man’s claws and fangs. If you check his mouth, you’ll find a ball of her flesh, you’ll also find traces of their skin under the other’s fingernails. Also, their scents are mingled, too mingled it they were just living together. Open and shut case, Lestrade.” He rose slowly, a hand on his chest, securing his hidden tags in place.

“How long do you think he was like that?”

“Hours would be my best guess,” Lestrade interrupted with a quiet, “Jesus,” before he continued, “His mind going faster than his body, which would explain why she was attacked. Her stupidity kept her in the flat when his transition began and an hour or so in, she became concerned and came in here, where he attacked her, ultimately killing her before he failed to survive himself.” He stopped, his brow furrowing. “She must have really loved him.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee, still warm. God, he loved Sherlock Holmes. Solving murder cases before his coffee cooled.

“You don’t know what real love is until you watch the one person you can’t live without lose themselves in a horrible, twisted way and yet, you can’t take your eyes away. You can’t leave. You stay with them, hoping that they’ll know that you care for them and that you will continue to do so, no matter what.” His eyes had a lost quality as he looked, not at the crime scene, but across it and out the window, as if seeing someone who wasn’t there.

“Let me escort you out,” he said, taking the other man’s elbow and gently steering him from the couple on the floor. After they passed the tape he stopped and turned the still lost looking consulting detective to face him. “And who loved you, Sherlock?”

He closed his odd, multi-colored eyes with a soft exhale. When he reopened them, his usual, mechanical focus was back, the mask firmly in place. “The first time was Mycroft, as was the second, though Molly heard it all, she couldn’t watch. She was the one who helped me recover my humanity. Through the early experiments, they both watched, but that was for science and they knew that I still existed. Two years ago, it was John. That’s how he found out.”

He nodded, smiling at the younger man. He had matured through this ordeal, of that he was certain. “Hours?”

“Now: minutes. One for the Moon, five for the nights around the new moon. The first time, Mycroft tells me that it was the longest half hour of his life. Those without my genetics tend to be about an hour the first time and it shortens after that. The more you shift, the easier and less painful it is. Unfortunately for them, and fortunately for you, they appear to need the Moon to help them shift. Those with it in their DNA do not.”

“Lucky me,” he whispered, thinking about the crime scene he had just left, “And lucky you.” Sherlock’s smile did not agree with the expression. It was forced and tight, his eyes overwhelmingly sad.

____________________________________________________

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the Chief Inspector intoned from behind his rather gaudy desk, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I have an idea that could make us more effective as a crime solving unit, Sir,” he said, standing at attention.

“If this has anything to do with that blasted Sherlock Holmes - He’s already on payroll.” It did but the Chief Inspector certainly didn’t need to know that.

“It doesn’t, Sir,” he replied in a half-truth.

“Then have a seat, Detective, and tell me what you’re thinking.” The older man gesture to one of the overstuffed leather chairs across from his desk. _A gift from Mycroft, no doubt, for taking Sherlock in as a consultant_.

“I think, Sir, that it would be a good idea for the Yard to hire werewolves.”

The man across from him sputtered. “What!?”

“I think that werewolves will be able to tell us more about crime scenes than what our human forensic scientists can.” He held up a hand as the Chief Inspector’s face began to grow angry and red. “Think of it this way, Sir. They are human and not infectious until the night of the full moon, thus making them safe to be around during daylight hours and some nights closer to say, the new moon. When they are human, their heightened senses remain, including their canine sense of smell. They could pick up traces of scents that no regular human can. They could tell us what poisons were used and how long ago they had been ingested ( _Sherlock had done that a couple of times_ ). They could pick up the scent of the murderer, or confirm or deny someone’s involvement in a crime. They could be a huge asset.”

“As glorified and paid sniffer dogs?” The Chief Inspector did not look convinced.

“As sniffer dogs that can talk about what exactly they’re smelling.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to keep from looking smug. He could see the wheels turning in the mind of the older man.

“It’s a good idea, Lestrade, I’ll give you that. I’m just worried that the rest of the force won’t agree with this.”

“Sir, hire one, just one and add him to my unit. Make sure that he has a background in criminology or forensics or chemistry, and I’ll do the rest. If he’s a success, I guarantee that the other units will want one or two of their own as well.”

The Chief Inspector rose, causing Lestrade to rise with him, and offered him his weathered hand. He accepted and they shook, both of them smiling. “You have yourself a deal, Detective Inspector.”

____________________________________________________

The day after his talk with the Chief Inspector, he was back at another crime scene. The crime was straightforward. A murder. However, it had been committed by a canine of some sort. Despite the lack of full moon the previous evening, he was pretty sure that it was Lupus Sapien. He had sent a quick text to Sherlock. He was going to need his help in identifying the killer.

The younger man arrived promptly, John in tow, his collar popped, blue scarf in place. “Where is it?” he asked, brushing past him and under the yellow crime scene tape.

“What’s with him?” he asked the doctor, worried about his favorite detective.

“He’s hit a dead end with his research,” John sighed. “He’s trying to get the Turned wolves to recognize voice commands and basic images when they transition. It hasn’t worked yet and he’s frustrated.”

“Ah,” he responded, walking with the soldier to the crime scene. “What do you make of this?”

The dark haired man was bent over the body. “Female. Twenty-one to twenty-four. Returning last night, most likely from a club, judging by her shoes, her rather short skirt, and the copious amount of make-up on her face. Cause of death is the bite mark on her jugular. Judging by the size and shape of the teeth, this was performed by a Lupus Sapien. One that was born or one that contained the DNA of the wolf and can change at will. The initial bite was performed during an act of intercourse, judging by the bruising on her wrists and her lack of pants, she didn’t take to it well. She left rather hurriedly, not checking her complexion and noting that it was horribly smudged as she would have done. He did not take kindly to her leaving and followed, finishing the job before the bite could take full effect.”

John, still standing next to the detective, confirmed what he already had guessed. “He was home, playing Chopin until four in the morning.”

“I know,” he replied, still watching the detective as he sniffed at the remains. “I didn’t think it was him.”

Sherlock cut back into the conversation, quietly, only loud enough for him and John to hear. “I’ve never smelled this scent before.” He looked up, fear playing in his eyes. “We have a new wolf in London, and, judging by the smell and the activities that took place before her death, he’s looking for a mate.”

He rose swiftly, a flash of metal falling from his collar.

“Oi! What’s that?” Donovan’s voice cut through their little gathering. Sherlock froze, observing her pointing finger before grabbing at his tags. “Yeah, that!”

He turned to face the woman, feeling protective of the younger man. “I thought I told you to stay outside the crime scene when Sherlock’s here.”

“You know about this, Greg? The man’s dangerous! You heard him yourself. A wolf did it.” She looked triumphant as Sherlock flushed slightly, dropping the tags back down the front of his shirt. “An’ _he’s_ a wolf.”

“Astute observation, Donovan,” the consulting detective replied, his voice even. “What proof do you have that proves that I did it?” His eyes narrowed in a challenge.

“Well,” the woman began, “You’re a wolf.”

“Already stated. Next.” _How is Sherlock so calm right now?_

“You’re male. You said he’s looking for a mate.” She raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms. Sherlock smirked and then chuckled.

“That’s a ridiculous notion, Donovan. I am not in the least interested in intercourse much less with a woman who cares more about her beauty than her brain.” He paused in his chuckle, smiling with his teeth out. _Smiling has never looked so dangerous_. “Anything else?”

“N-no,” she responded, cowed a bit by his dominant display.

“Now that the ridiculous notion that I am a suspect has been overturned, may I leave? I believe that Mycroft should be notified.” He strode past and under the tape, not waiting. “Come along, John. Don’t want to be late picking Evelyn up from school.” He checked his mobile. It was only 10:30am, too early to pick up a child from school.

The blonde but greying doctor turned to him, an apologetic look on his face. “We’ll notify you if we get anything. Same on your end, yeah?”

“Of course,” he nodded brusquely. “And I apologize for Donovan.”

John shook his head. “He’s used to the type of behavior from the woman. It didn’t bother him, or at least, not that much. He’s probably over it already. Besides, he can’t get fired from the Yard. That’d be discrimination.” The man turned with a wave and trotted after the tall man in the long coat.

He gave a sad smile at the retreating backs of the detective and his blogger, knowing that neither John nor Sherlock believed a single word that the shorter man had just said. He’d have to deal with Donovan, and keep this slip under wraps for as long as he can.

_______________________________________________________

NEWLY REGISTERED. MATTHEW ST. PIERRE FROM CANADA. NATURAL BORN, FATHERS SIDE OF FAMILY. - SH

It had only taken the detective three hours to track down that information, probably with the help of Mycroft.

BRILLIANT. ADDRESS?

He waited, knowing that the detective would get back to him eventually. It all depended on if he had moved on to something else, his attention span, short. His phone dinged softly. “Alright, Sherlock,” he breathed.

YES. MEET ME AT BAKER STREET. YOU’RE GOING TO NEED ME. - SH

He sighed, rolling his eyes.

CAN’T COME ALONE. POLICE BUSINESS.

UNDERSTOOD. 221B IN AN HOUR. ASK FOR WILLIE. - SH

 _Who in the bloody hell was Willie? And what did he have to do with this?_ He sighed, rubbing his face wearily. Sherlock Holmes was going to be the death of him, of that he was certain. At least he had time for one more cup of coffee. Something told him that he was going to need it.

Exactly one hour later, he was standing outside the door of 221B Baker Street, Donovan and four of his finest waiting in the squad cars downstairs. Sighing, he knocked on the door and waited. John opened it, jacket on, Sig hidden beneath it, he was certain. He had a leash in the hand that was not clasped on the doorknob.

“I was told to ask for ‘Willie’?” he said, feeling like a fool. With a smile, John called over his shoulder. “It’s for you!” A massive dark brown beast came thundering out of the back of the flat, mouth open, tongue lolling. The brute skidded to a halt and sat, looking up at him with what could only be described as a grin plastered on his wolf-like face. _Wolf-like face_.

“Sherlock?” he breathed, reaching a hand out. “You go by Willie now, do you?” The wolf thumped his tail on the floor behind him.

“Doesn’t want his identity known. After all, he does make a rather lovely doggie. Might even trick Donovan,” John was chuckling, attaching the lead to the wide collar that was again hiding his tags before ruffling the fur in the other man’s ruff and up onto the top of his head, playing between his ears.

“Well, boys, let’s go catch a wolf.” He smiled and nodded at the two men ( _Because, honestly, Sherlock was never anything else_ ) and headed down the stairs.


	29. Sherlock

_I never want to ride in a police car again. Next time John and I are taking a cab and following behind. I don’t care what he says._ Donovan had put him in the boot, much to his displeasure, but he had to maintain his charade as ‘just a dog,’ so he hopped in and allowed them to shut the door on him. As payback, however, he breathed heavily into Donovan’s hair, allowing his drool to drip onto the back of her neck and into her bun.

“Get a hold of your dog, John. This is disgusting,” the officer cringed, attempting to escape his maw.

“I can’t Donovan,” he replied, perhaps a bit too cheerfully, “He’s too big to turn about in the cramped boot.” He barked his agreement. Right next to the insufferable woman’s ear.

Needless to say, the car ride was way too long for his liking and he was glad when the trunk was opened again and he was able to get out, stretching his legs. Immediately, he could smell the presence of another wolf. _Forest, winter, paints. An artist. Same as the crime scene._

He loped to the door, passing the police and snuffled along the base of the door jam. He turned back to Lestrade, sat, and placed a paw on the door. _He’s still here_.

The detective knocked firmly on the door, standing beside John and in front of Sherlock. Hiding the wolf’s presence would do very little, as the other man certainly would have smelled the detective already. A young man of about thirty answered the door, a confused expression on his handsome face. He had brown hair, flecked with grey, despite his young age, and brown eyes. “Can I help you?”

“May we come in?” Lestrade asked politely, flashing his badge. “We’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

The other wolf stood aside, eyeing the police cars warily. His nostrils flared, his eyes flicking to look at him for the first time. His brown eyes narrowed and his mouth turned into a scowl. “I’m allergic to dogs,” he said, his eyes still boring into his own. He growled, pulling back his lips as best he could and raised his head. This pup had to be taught who was Alpha in London. The man took a step back.

“Too bad,” John replied, pushing past the wolf and into the man’s foyer. He followed, flicking his tail impetuously.

“Could you tell us where you were last night between 1am and 4am?” Lestrade asked, pad out, pen in hand as the man shut the door behind him.

The Canadian made no answer, still staring at Sherlock with wide eyes. He growled again. _Answer the man._ He gulped, eyes flickering to the detective before tilting his head slightly to the left, exposing his neck in submission. _Beta, yielding to the more dominant Alpha._ He sat back on his haunches and watched Lestrade work.

“I was at a club, XoYo last night,” the man responded.

“Can you confirm that?” Lestrade asked, making a note of it.

“Yes, I was with my new flatmate, Carl,” the man replied, eyes flickering back to him as he listened, ears pitched forward.

“When did you leave the club?”

“About three, I think.” He shrugged.

“Did you leave alone?”

The man flushed in embarrassment. “No, we took a girl home with us.”

“Your flatmate, Carl, is he a werewolf too?”

“How did you-?” Sherlock cut him off with a growl. “Yes. Newly in from Germany.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s got the graveyard shift at the frozen pudding factory off A407.”

Lestrade produced a picture of the victim, a young university student whose parents had identified her soon after she had been brought to the morgue. “Do you recognize this girl?”

The man gulped again and looked away. Sherlock growled. “No, no I don’t,” the man replied, his voice rising in pitch.

Lestrade stepped closer. “Let’s try this again. Do you recognize this girl?”

“Yes,” Matthew muttered, his head hanging. “That’s the girl we took home.” His head snapped up. “But I swear, I only bit her to claim her, keep her from Carl. He’s a bit rough. Most Alphas are and she was so sweet. A lovely mate. Is she pressing charges?”

The detective inspector’s eyes narrowed, confused. “Charges? No.” He shook his head. “She’s dead.”

“Dead!” The young man shrieked, collapsing on the floor in an unsightly, sobbing heap. “I-I felt off this morning and...Dead...I should have known...I should have walked her home...I...dead.”

John knelt beside the man and wrapped an arm gently around his heaving shoulders. The greying DI looked down at him. “Make some sense of this, Sh-Willie. Can you scent the other one, see if it matches the crime scene?”

He whined. The smell that had been all over the scene was this man’s. It had been everywhere, coated everything. If the other man was Alpha, his scent would have covered the scene, pushing this man’s distinct smell to the background. He took a deep breath. _Forest, winter, paint. Just Matthew._

Pulling his lead ( _God, he loathed the thing_ ), John dropped the other end and he went further into the house, sniffing the rooms for a hint of something else. The kitchen smelled of chicken, the last meal finished about an hour ago. The bathroom was a mixture of deodorant, body soap and shampoo. He sniffed the bottles more closely. One of them carried no scent. He tipped it over, causing a drop to shake onto his paw. He sniffed it. His paw smelled like nothing. _Carl is masking his scent. It must be a wolf that knows that I work with the Yard, that I know. That can turn when he pleases._ His ears went back. _Sherrinford_.

Making a note to return for the bottle ( _It could come in handy_ ), he venture back into the foyer and up the stairs to the bedrooms. One stank of sex, the woman’s soft, vanilla scent mingled with paint and forest and a bit of blood, the woman’s from the mate bite, covered in the stench of bodily fluids. He turned away quickly, disgusted. The second bedroom door was closed firmly. Frustrated, he lay on his stomach and sniffed at the crack at the bottom of the door. _Forest (a prominent werewolf scent), Earl Grey, dusty books. Sherrinford_.

With a yowl, he launched himself down the stairs and skittered into the toilet. He grabbed the bottle carefully in his mouth and brought it back to Lestrade, dropping it on the floor with a woof. Catching on, John asked, “Who uses this body wash?”

The man looked up, sniffling. “Carl.”

Confirming his belief, Sherlock tenderly licked the man’s salty cheek and moved to the door, pawing it. “That’s all we have for now,” Lestrade said formally. “We’ll be by if there are any more questions.”

Opening the door, the three of them exited the house. “Where is he?” Donovan called, pushing away from the car she’d been leaning against.

“Flatmate did it and he’s gone,” Lestrade said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Get in. I’ll drop you off at 221B before I send out a bulletin on this Carl guy.”

Relegated again to the boot, Sherlock could feel nothing but dread and wanted to feel nothing but John or Evelyn’s fingers playing through his fur.

______________________________________________

Barely waiting for the door to close behind him, he pulled himself into the shift, his bones popping and rearranging as ligaments broke and joints dislocated to relocate a different way. He moaned through clenched teeth, feeling them compress and become flatter. His tags jangled, rattling against the suddenly very loose collar. He sat up and rolled his neck back and forth, working out the final kinks.

“Dear God, Sherlock,” John breathed.

He opened his eyes, meeting the slate grey orbs of the shorter man. They were wide and terrified. One hand was still on the doorknob, the other still holding the other end of the lead. His mouth was open. The lead dropped to the wooden floor with a soft thwack. Sherlock dropped his hands to cover himself.

“Couldn’t wait. Text Lestrade. It’s Sherrinford. He covered his scent with the soap.” He stood rapidly, very aware of the doctor’s eyes that were still locked on him. “Now, John. Do it now!”

He made his exit in as dignified a manner as he could muster for a man that had literally been rebuilt in front of the man that he cared for. He was embarrassingly half hard, not enough for the knot to have shown, but still. John could have found out. _John could have found out_. Taking a few calming breaths, he slipped into his pajamas and dressing gown and exited his bedroom.

John was seated on the couch, staring at nothing. “Did you do it?” he asked the man, moving to sit on his chair while reaching for his laptop. He pulled up the file that he had on his rogue brother and added the intel he had collected before slamming the lid down. John had not answered his question. He fixed the man in his best alpha stare. “ _Did you do it?_ ”

“Hmmm?” The soldier’s head rose off his hands. His eyes refocused slowly. “Oh, Greg. Yes. I’ve also sent one to Mycroft.” His eyes slid out of focus again.

“Have you been drugged?” the consulting detective asked, worried about the other man’s behavior. He scented the air, no trace of anything unnatural that he didn’t already know about. Antsy, he got up and began to rummage about the kitchen, pulling out leftover ham, cheese and bread, throwing together two sandwiches. When he returned to the sitting room, John looked exactly the same. Present physically but somewhere far afield mentally. He set the plate down on the coffee table with a solid thunk. “John. Eat,” he commanded.

“Wah?” he replied, again refocusing on him, scanning his body as if shocked to see it.

“Eat, John. It’s afternoon. We missed lunch.” He took a large bite out of his sandwich, relishing in the taste.

The other man picked up the plate and took a small bite out of the food there, eating but not noticing a single thing about it. Swallowing and gazing off at Billy the skull, he murmured, “You have a tail.” The man’s eyes flickered back to him, wide but finally focused.

The statement made him pause, his mouth full of ham and swiss. He quickly finished chewing the mass and swallowed. “Of course I have a tail John, I’d look rather ridiculous without one. I’m a wolf. We have tails.” He chuckled, taking another bite.

“I mean now,” the human doctor replied, picking at the bread on the top of his sandwich with two fingers. “You have a vestigial tail.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Yes.”

“You didn’t always have it.” John was looking at something else now. The ash tray. The one he had stolen from Buckingham Palace. _Ah, the sheet incident._

“That is correct.” _Where is this going?_

“Being a wolf changed you. You and the wolf share...parts. Your eyes. That...tail. Anything else I should know about, Sherlock?”

“I don’t see why you think it’s your business to know about any of it, to be honest with you, John,” he growled darkly. It was his body, his secrets to keep.

The doctor rose. “You’re right,” he said, “I’m sorry for asking.” With that, he turned and stormed from the flat, slamming the door behind him.


	30. Mycroft and Molly

Sherrinford was proving to be wilier than he had originally given the man credit for. _Moves and countermoves brother. My turn._

_The question is: What move to I make?_

It was obvious that the man was using his turned wolves as a distraction, bringing the importance of training these men to the fore. He had chosen them out of convenience, not because of any specific skill or personality type. He was being sloppy just to build up his numbers. The wolves didn’t know about him and thus would not answer to him.

Sherlock, on the other hand. He had heard about his interaction with the born Beta. How he had made the man cower without a single word, trapped in his wolf form and in the submissive position of being collared. If his brother was willing, his instincts, obviously Alpha, could be applied to the turned wolves. He could tame them at least, keep them human through the change at the best. He was the key to that situation.

Which left the current problem: Matthew St. Pierre. Was Sherrinford importing natural-born wolves? If so, how many were there? And what did he have on them that made them do it? He had no pack, that was something that he had made plain to Sherlock. He wouldn’t be here is he had a Pack to call his own. He was Alpha, maybe as potent as Sherlock, or more. He had said that his older sibling had no power over him due to the circumstances of his inheritance.

Even more terrifying: Why kill the girl? She had done nothing wrong, except choose the Beta and take his bite. A bite that may have been given rashly and may not have been wanted. After all, she had left his home early in the morning in a rush. Was Sherrinford looking for a mate? What did a mate do that foot soldiers could not? Also, as was evidenced in his own family, mating with a non-wolf did not guarantee wolf offspring. The gene had been suppressed for nearly four generations until Sherrinford.

 _The problems of fighting an enemy of whom you had no knowledge_. Instead, he was stumbling along figuring things out with Sherlock, one step a time. One new discovery at a time. You would think, six and a half years later they would have figured everything out, and yet... _This is Sherlock. When has he ever been typical?_

A knock on his door roused him from his thoughts. His beautiful wife of nearly three years stood in the doorway, a mug of tea in hand. “Hello Myc,” she smiled softly. “How are you doing, my dearest?”

She entered, striding carefully so as not to spill the hot liquid on to his fine Persian carpet, and made it to his desk, setting it down on the smooth oak. “I thought you might like some tea.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, covering her hand with his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “How are the little ones?” She grinned. “Finally down for a nap. It only took forty-five minutes. I’d get Lucy to sleep and then Nathaniel would fuss and wake her up. I think I’m ready for my nap now.”

He chuckled good-naturedly. “These are the days that they say we’ll miss when they’re older. I don’t think I will.”

“I’ll miss holding them close, knowing that I’m the only protection that they have against the world. That only I can keep them safe.” Her face was serious, though she had a far off look in her eye. Turning her attention back to him, she added, “But, then again, you do that on a daily basis with your _minor_ position in the government.”

She leaned forward and captured his lips chastely before pulling back. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Wait,” he called softly after her, “Molly. I may need your help.”

____________________________________________________

She felt ridiculous, looked ridiculous, and thought that this plan was ridiculous. She was the mother of five month old twins for crying out loud! Yet, here she was, wearing four inch stilettos and the tightest, tiniest dress she owned, traipsing about London on the night of the full moon. Seemingly alone.

Of course, that was far from true. John was tailing her, his illegal gun tucked beneath his jacket. Lestrade was someplace in the darkness as well. Mycroft was watching too, she could sense the pivoting of the cameras as he watched over her. Every now and again, she’d get a glimpse of fur out of the corner of her eye and be comforted to know that Sherlock was with her too.

Despite her original fright of the wolf, she found herself thanking fate for unleashing this unexpected twist into his life, and ultimately, hers. She smiled, recalling the day of the twin’s birth.

_She was exhausted. The labor had been long and by the end, she had lost all sense of propriety. But now, holding those two precious beings to her bosom, she would do it again in a heartbeat. Mycroft had gotten them home shortly after - for their own protection. She was sure that it was because hospitals reminded him of Sherlock, but didn’t say anything. She was just glad to be home._

_A soft knock sounded on the door to their room. She looked up, smiling at the two men who stood in her doorway. The blonde man held a bouquet of yellow roses and a gift bag while the brunette was scanning the room and sniffing the air, his hands shoved into the pockets of his Belstaff. “Congratulations, Molly,” John said, moving towards the bed. “They are beautiful. What have you named them?” “_

_The oldest is Lucy, our little girl.” She inclined her head to her right side, looking down at the baby in the pink blanket and hat. “Our youngest is Nathaniel, our little boy.” She inclined her head to her left where the baby was wrapped in blue._

_“Excuse me,” the werewolf said, slipping into the hallway._

_“Is something wrong?” she asked, looking away from her kids to meet the slate grey eyes of the doctor. He shook his head, looking at the door, his brow furrowed. About two minutes later, the familiar sound of claws on hardwood reached their ears. “It’s not a full moon.”_

_“Maybe it’s a wolf thing?” he stated questioningly as the wolf in question trotted into the room, pausing only to shake out his fur. She knew that he was throwing his scent into the room, probably uncomfortable with the strong odor of Mycroft that the room held. He finally stopped beside the bed, his nostrils flared, his eyes questioning._

_“Do what you need to Sherlock,” she had said quietly, curious, but trusting. He leapt up onto the bed, shifting the mattress beneath his considerable weight and laid at her side, nosing and snuffling the bundles of joy in her arms. He nudged them with his cool nose, inhaling deeply. The babies each smiled under his ministrations, their tiny hands waving in the air, brushing his fur. He whined, snuggling as close to the babies as he physically could without putting his massive body into her lap. “Do you want to...hold them?” she asked. His whine abruptly ending as he gave a wide, wolfy grin, his tongue lolling out._

_She had laid each child against him, Lucy against his flank and Nathaniel against his shoulder. He wrapped the rest of his body around them, sniffling and licking and nuzzling the little ones to sleep. He rumbled softly, a noise that she had never heard before._

_John leaned over the pile an odd smile on his face, wrinkling his eyes. “The kids,” he whispered. “Only the kids get that sound. I don’t know what it is but it’s comforting.” The wolf nodded gently in response, trying not to jostle her son below his head, the rumbling continuing._

_I_ _t was after he had transitioned back that he explained his behavior. “I was scenting them. They’re Pack, after all. And now I know that you have nothing to worry about. Mycroft did not pass on my condition to your pups. No hint of wolf in their scent.”_

He was looking out for her family, as he had promised from the first night, still in his wolf form as he had covered her and subsequently fallen asleep in her lap. The only sound was the steady bumping of the bass from the nearby club. She was not a club person, the music and noise bothered her and made her feel dirty. There was a reason why her chosen occupation involved her, in a sterilized room, with one very silent participant.

Her heels, the ridiculous contraptions digging into her feet in all the wrong places, clicked on the sidewalk. “Oh Mycroft, we’re going to have words later, Honey,” she muttered under her breath, very aware that the only person who would hear her was Sherlock. She hoped that he was having a good laugh. Instead, she heard a distinct growl.

She stopped, spinning around in those strappy shoes, and subsequently catching a slim heel. She crashed to the pavement, scraping the side of her arm, from her wrist to her elbow. She gasped, pain shooting up from her ankle and up her bleeding arm.

The menacing growl drew closer. _Oh, God! Where are you guys?!_ A large, tawny wolf stalked towards her, blue eyes glaring down at her over white fangs. “Sh-Sherrinford,” she breathed, holding up an arm in defense and closing her eyes as he gathered himself to spring.

“NO!” The shout caused her eyes to fly open. John was sprinting forward, gun raised and aimed at the wolf as he leapt, almost in slow motion. The soldier got in between them, firing as he did so. The massive wolf, larger than Sherlock, landed on top of them with a whimper. The weight on her legs and abdomen eased as a dark brown wolf leapt from the shadows, his mouth wrapping around the ruff of the lighter wolf, the momentum of his jump pulling him off. She saw blood and noticed a slight hitch in Sherrinford’s stride and the two wolves circled, growling menacingly.

“Molly! MOLLY!” John hissed, shaking her gently. “Molly, look at me!” She did, tearing her eyes away as the wolves collided. The doctor’s hands slid over her body, noting her bleeding arm. He removed his jacket and pressed it into her wound, staunching the bleeding. “Did he get you anywhere, Molly?”

“Nuh-no,” she stammered, her heart pounding in her chest, her pulse racing as adrenaline coursed through her veins. She met his concerned eyes.

“Okay, you’re going to be alright Molly,” he said quietly, helping her to sit on the cool pavement, wrapping his arms around her, sharing his warmth. The sound of the wolves echoed through the alley, so ferocious and feral. She couldn’t watch, only praying that the car or Lestrade would get here in time to save Sherlock. His younger brother inevitably had the upper hand.

As if on cue, the flood of headlights filled the dim alley along with the sound of gun fire. A whimper split the air followed by the sound of retreating feet, wobbly and unsteady. “DO NOT FOLLOW HIM, SHERLOCK!” came the authoritative voice of DI Lestrade. In a softer, more gentle order, he said, “Everyone get in the car. We’re going to Baker Street. No one’s escaped this unscathed.”

_____________________________________________________

His wife had passed out in shock and blood loss. His brother was licking his side and growling at anyone who dared attempt to touch him. John was stitching up Lestrade who kept insisting that it wasn’t a bite but a claw mark. Sherrinford had apparently snuck up on him from behind and used his considerable size and strength to bowl him over, knocking him out. John’s shirt was likewise covered in blood, though he swore that it was the wolf’s. He had gotten off a shot before he had been knocked onto Molly, the werewolf covering them both.

Sherlock’s head shot up, his nostrils flared then shook his head and turned back to nursing his wound. The behavior was odd, even for his younger sibling. He had been doing since they had gotten in the car, according to Lestrade. He made a note of it before moving to sit closer to Molly, one of her hands clasped in both of his.

Tonight had not gone as he had planned, not anywhere close. Molly wasn’t supposed to be in real danger, just bait for the randy werewolf. That had worked. The fact that he had gotten so close was not something that any of them had planned for. Thankfully, John Watson, army doctor, had been there, or his wife could be bleeding out on the pavement, or worse, bitten, the transformation already changing her very genetic make-up as she lay there.

“Could I get in there, mate?” John’s soft, bedside manner voice cut into his thoughts. Looking up, he noticed clean bandages and sutures in the man’s hands as well as a hypodermic needle. “She’s going to need stitches.”

“Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me,” he replied, standing and retreating, his eyes on the doctor. Sherlock’s head shot up again in his peripheral vision, sniffing the air of 221B before settling down again with a sigh. His attention returned to Molly, glad that she was sleeping as the doctor stitched the slowly bleeding wound. “Do you notice anything strange about the wound, Doctor? Any clear, mucus-y liquid?”

“None,” John murmured, focused entirely on his task at hand. “It’s a deep scrape, Mycroft. That’s all. He didn’t get her.”

“The only one he really got was Sherlock,” Lestrade said, leaning forward on his elbows to keep the pressure off his torn back. “You should have seen them going at it, Mycroft. It was like something from one of those nature programs on the telly. Terrifyingly beautiful. Though, you gave as good as you got, didn’t you Sherlock?” The man smiled at the dark brown wolf who responded with a soft whine. “With two bullet wounds and several rather deep scratches and bites, Sherrinford will be licking his wounds for a long time. Unless, of course, he doesn’t make it. It’d make all our lives easier, to say the least.”

“Yeah,” the soldier responded. “But we all know that that’s wishful thinking.” He got up and moved towards the dark brown wolf. “Can I take a look at that, Sherlock? Please?”

The young man stopped his licking and looked at the greying blonde as he knelt, slowly extending a hand. His nostrils flared and he snuffled, his head snaking towards the other man’s chest, sniffing his shirt. “It’s all Sherrinford’s, Sherlock. I shot him, remember? Now, please let me at least look at your side. It’s still bleeding, probably needs stitches.”

With a huff, the detective flopped over, exposing his worst wound to the doctor. The man quickly cleaned it as the wolf yowled, promptly waking the babies that were asleep in John’s flat upstairs. He heard the floorboards creak as Mrs. Hudson went to put them back to sleep. _God bless that woman_. John continued, using dissolvable thread on the wound, knowing that the shift would take care of it.

As the last thread was cut, Sherlock again began to sniffle and nose about John’s shirt. “God, Sherlock, if it’s bothering you so much, I’ll take it off.” The man pulled the t-shirt over his head and held his arms out. “There, happy?”

The wolf cocked his head, his eyes filling with remorse and his ears drooping, suddenly looking very distraught. He reached forward again, nuzzling the soldier, his tongue darting over a bit of blood on the man’s right pectoral muscle, cleaning every trace of Sherrinford from him. The deep rumble, the one reserved for the children, began to resonate about the room as the wolf reclaimed the doctor with his scent as he climbed, rather stiffly and carefully, onto the man.

“Sherlock,” the greying man chided, “Get off me. You reek!”

With a cocked eyebrow muscle, an extra wiggle and a lick from chin to hairline, the detective hopped off him and trotted, stiffly, off to his bedroom. The assembly, John - the victim of the situation included, snorted and burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the wolf’s instincts. It was a full moon after all, bringing the animal nature to the fore within the detective.


	31. Sherlock

He woke up feeling stiffer than usual, courtesy of the wounds given to him from his fight for dominance with his younger sibling. He moaned, his mouth tasting of blood ( _Again Sherrinford’s_ ), bolting him awake, the tang almost unbearable despite his usual diet while on four legs.

Rolling out of bed, he grabbed his robe and threw it about his shoulders, the pull of his mended muscles making him wince. He’d have to shift again to relieve that ache but, right now, he could hear John and Evelyn going about their morning above him and they were coming to see him. He smiled, missing his traditional night with the little girl in the park, chasing her and that bloody tennis ball through the open space. He cocked his head, listening intently to the family that lived above him.

_Evelyn’s light tread emerged from her room, most likely with her uniform on and her hair and teeth brushed, ready for school. “Daddy!” she shouted, causing him to wince at the loud, shrill sound that he could hear even behind the closed doors of his flat, and she ran into her father’s open arms. “_

_My angel!” the soldier replied, planting a kiss on her cheek. “How are you my darling girl? Did you have fun with Nana?”_ (Her pet name for Mrs. Hudson, rather adorable and one that the woman appreciated. After all, he and John were ‘her boys.’)

 _“Oh, yes! We took Nathaniel and Lucy out for a stroll in the park and I fed the ducks and then I fell in a puddle but Nana brought me back and we changed my stockings and made biscuits and ate most of them. I did save you one, Daddy. And one for Uncle Shock.”_ He sighed, loathing the nickname. Every time he saw her, he insisted on attempting to get her to say his full name, but she’s stubborn. Typical of Watson genes.)

_“Well, Darling,” John continued, “You could grab it now and bring it with you. Uncle Shock is making us breakfast. Isn’t that wonderful?” the doctor smiled, releasing his daughter and nudging her gently towards the counter, her stumbling steps light on the floorboards above him._

_She skipped away, probably with a broad, bright smile flashing on her face, her feet thudding overhead._ He smiled back at her wistfully, tilting his head up as he made his way to the loo to get the horrid metallic taste out of his mouth. _The clatter of tin on countertop told him that she had quickly grabbed the biscuit tin, echoed by the slid of fabric across the floor as she picked up her knapsack and skipped across the floor to John. She grabbed his hand and, the older man stumblingly, was jerked out the door._

He spat his minty toothpaste into the sink and rinsed it down, hearing the descending footsteps on the creaky stairs in the hallway. _“My Angel,” John called, “Please walk down the steps. I don’t want you to fall.”_

 _Her steps stopped as she (most likely) stuck her tongue out at her father but listened, walking down the last few steps buoyantly._ His ears picked up on her feet, thumping on the wood of the stairs, as he made his way to the kitchen and pulled the fixings for an English Breakfast from his fridge, typically starved after a Full Moon shift.

“Uncle Shock!” his friend’s daughter cried, dropping her sack by the flat door with a solid thud before running to him as he at the stove. He turned, spatula in hand, allowing her to wrap her arms around his thin waist. After a beat, he reciprocated the gesture with one arm, the other still holding the greasy spatula.

“Uncle Sherlock,” he murmured, a small, close lipped smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “How are you, Evelyn?”

“Great!” She smile up at him, her chin resting on his lower abdomen. “Hungry.”

His smile bloomed. “I think I can help with that.” Gently extracting himself from the little girls arms, he turned back to the stove, turning the hams, bacon, and sausages and checking on the scrambled eggs.

“Evie,” the doctor cut in, “Please help me set the table. You can leave you present for Uncle Shock on his plate.” Without turning to look he knew that the other man was smirking as he grumbled “Sherlock” again under his breath.

The detective quickly removed the food from the burners and placed it on the table. In a gesture that surprised the soldier ( _Evidenced in raised eyebrows, widened eyes_ ), the wolf, though starved, allowed everyone else to take their allotted portions first before shoveling the rest onto his plate beside the chocolate biscuit that the little girl had baked for him. His table manners, while usually refined, were rather atrocious. John watched with a slightly disturbed fascination as he stuffed food into his mouth haphazardly between large swigs of black coffee.

“Do you like the biscuit, Uncle Sher-lock?” Evelyn asked expectantly, batting her eyelashes at the man. He had to give himself credit - at least he had saved the chocolatey treat for last.

The detective took another bite of the dessert, finishing it. “It may be the greatest biscuit ever created, Evelyn. Did you make it yourself?” He smiled as he almost daintily wipe his mouth with a napkin.

The little girl sat up straighter, her chest puffing up with pride. “Yes, I did. Though Nana helped a little bit.” She grinned so brightly, it put the rare London sun that streamed through their window to shame.

It charmed the pants of the rather unemotional detective as a genuine smile formed on his face. “My highest compliments to the baker, then,” he praised. His mobile beeped once, the smile slipping from his lips. “Evelyn, Uncle Mycroft is here to bring you to school today. He’s waiting outside.”

“May I be excused, Daddy?” the five year old asked, her smile turned towards her father now.

“Yes, you may,” he replied with a bright smile, his little girl melting his fears away. “Now give Daddy a kiss and be sure to thank Uncle Mycroft for bringing you.”

The child gave her father a gentle kiss on his cheek and ran to the door, grabbing her knapsack as she went. “Bye! I love you!”

“Love you too, Angel!” the soldier called after her, listening her skip lightly down the steps. “Have a good day at school!” He listened intently, hearing her exit, the door slamming shut behind her.

With a sigh, the consulting detective’s head straightened. “She’s in the car and on the way to school. She asked why my brother didn’t bring Willie.”

“She loves you.” The statement from the doctor was not expected, making his sit up straighter.

“She doesn’t know it’s me.” His impossible, shifting eyes met the other man’s blue pair. “And, she never will.” He pushed back from the table and began to collect the empty plates and pans, tossing them haphazardly into the sink. “Besides,” he muttered, “She won’t be seeing Willie for a while. He’s got other things to do once a month now.”

John, still seated at the table, quietly asked “Do you need help with anything, Sherlock?”

“Nope.” He popped the ‘P,’ focusing on the task at hand. He needed to focus, find his younger sibling while he was weak. Though they had been relatively matched in size and weight, Sherrinford’s experience outweighed his own exponentially, allowing him to land more blows in their one-on-one face off the previous evening. His advantage, of course, lay in his pack. John and Lestrade had both hit him, their bullets piercing his body. Bullet wounds, while not irreparable, took more time to heal than scratches and bites.

“What’s your plan for...this?” He continued to scrub at the dishes, taking note of the other man’s question but opting to not respond. “Sherlock?” the doctor insisted, pushing.

He pursed his lips in response, shaking his unruly curls and holding up a sudsy hand dismissively. He needed to think and John was not helping.

Taking the hint, he heard the other man’s chair scrape back from the table and his footsteps leave the flat, preparing to go about his day. No doubt he had a shift at the surgery. He blocked the sound of the heavy footsteps as best he could, walking to the couch and throwing his body, still nude under the robe, onto the leather cushions. His hands tucked themselves under his chin and he retreated into his Mind Palace.

_Think. THINK! He must have a bolthole somewhere. A place he’d feel safe. A place I wouldn’t think to look. That’s the only way to get him. Kill him while he’s weak. Or capture him - but that would endanger others. Put others at risk of being bitten. There are not enough ‘werewolves’ to justify having a ‘werewolf’ prison. So, if captured, where to put him?_

_Cart before the horse. FOCUS._

_Where is he? Would Mycroft know? A wounded wolf would not think to hide from CCTV cameras while retreating - but he is a Holmes, as much as Brother Mine and I try to forget. I have boltholes all over the city, why wouldn’t he? Of course, if he takes after Mycroft - he considers himself impossible to find. Not true, no one knows where to look. Of course, there’s always Them._

_Wait..._

_He’s threatened Them before. Would he? It is rather attractive for the wolf - lots of space, plenty of wild life. Would he do that? It was a trek out to Oxford, especially with two bullet wounds, but..._

He reached for his mobile and shot a text to Mycroft.

BOLTHOLE IN OXFORD. - SH

It did not take long with for the man to respond, skeptically of course.

RIDICULOUS. WHY? - MH

He rolled his eyes.

BECAUSE THERE IS PLENTY OF OPEN SPACE, WILD LIFE - WE WOULD NEVER THINK TO LOOK THERE. OBVIOUS - SH

He could hear his brother mulling the thought over in his mind from here. His mobile dinged.

TIME TO VISIT MUMMY THEN -MH

With a satisfied smirk, he rose from his reclined position and moved to his bedroom. Can’t go home without his clothes on, after all, he had left without them last time. Need to appear civilized for the family.

________________________________________

He had told John that he’d be going to visit his parents for a few days, which the other man quickly realized was an utter lie. He stood, hands akimbo, glaring up at him. It would have cowed a lesser man than he in a heartbeat. Instead, his Alpha rushed to the surface and he bared his teeth with a growl. The soldier, to his credit, flinched but retained his fierce eye contact.

“Sherlock,” he practically growled back. “What’s going on?”

His nostrils flared, scenting the anger that mingled with the shorter man’s usual harmless scent of tea, wool, and gunpowder. “We have reason to believe that Sherrinford is hiding out in Oxford. It’s the last place we’d think to check, but it really is ideal habitat for the wolf.”

“You ready to see your parents again?” the other man softened. “

No, but I don’t have a choice. Not if I’m going to protect them. It’s close enough to the full moon, maybe I’ll just go feral.” He attempted to appear nonchalant to cover his insecurity. He refolded his clothes, placing them into his overnight bag with surgical precision.

“Sherlock, you shouldn’t have to do that,” his best friend intoned, hesitating before placing a hand on his arm in a comforting gesture. Usually not one to enjoy or reciprocate gestures of sentiment, he gave a small smile and covered the other man’s hand with his.

“It’s fine, John. No need to make anyone uncomfortable. Beside, the Wolf will pick things up that even my intellect would miss,” he intoned.

“Evy and I will come and visit this weekend,” the other man murmured, giving his arm a squeeze before heading out the door to the clinic. “Try to manage until then.”


	32. The Wolf

The car ride made his nerves skyrocket. If he had been in his Full Moon form, he would have been panting from the stress of it. By the time he and his brother had arrived at their parents, he was certain that Mycroft was going to strangle him. The other man had restrained himself, though, aware of how well the last visit had gone. He closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose, his brother’s scent providing a bit of comfort, and stepped from the car.

“Oh, Timothy!” their mother called from the garden, “Look who’s here! Our boys! Mycy and Sherlock have come to visit!”

“Mother,” his elder brother intoned, bending a bit to allow the woman access to his cheek, where she placed a kiss.

“While I’m thrilled to see you, what prompted this visit? I haven’t had the beds done up.” Her blue eyes were sincere but wide, flickering towards him anxiously. He was very aware that she had not made a move to embrace or kiss him. She was waiting to see what he was going to do, the animal among men.

“We think that you’re in danger from your youngest _pup_ ,” he intoned, his mouth and eyes hard.

“Sherlock,” she murmured, obviously hurt, “Don’t use that language. I still love you. You’re still my baby boy.” Slowly, she took a step towards him, never taking her eyes off of him. She raised a hand, his nostrils flaring subconsciously. _Ink, chocolate, peonies and pollen. Worry, fear. Love._ Her hand stopped.

He gave a small smile and reached towards her hand, taking it in his. Her eyes widened but she made no move to pull away. Slowly, he raised her hand to cup his cheek. “I forgive you, Mother,” he murmured. Her hand pulled his head lower and she planted a tender kiss on the side of his face, forgiving him in return.

Regardless of their reunion, dinner was still an awkward affair. They had not done the family thing very well since Sherrinford’s ‘death’ all those years ago. No, it had fallen apart before that. Sherrinford had just been the final straw. Mycroft had been a genius child that his average parents, while passingly intelligent, did not know how to handle. He had been the problem child, the unpredictable wild one, even from a young age. The birth of a wolf, well, that was something that they could not have handled.

He was glad to retreat to his room afterwards, though he did not intend to stay there for long. There was a wolf out there, somewhere, hopefully still wounded and weak. He left his door slightly ajar and stripped, folding his clothes and piling them onto his bed. The moon, not full but nearly, pulled him easily from his human form and into his wolf shape. It was only after he was shaking his fur out that he noticed the older woman standing in the doorway.

His mother’s mouth was a thin line, her eyes, wide with shock. He whined, his one regret of being in wolf form was his loss of his ability to form words with his maw. He walked to her, very aware of his claws clicking along the wood floor, his head ducked and ears forward. The woman who had birthed him did not move.

“Sherlock?” she breathed. He lay at her feet submissively before he placed his curly-coated head under her hand and waited, feeling the comforting warmth of it between his ears. Slowly, the fingers moved, playing through his coat. “Soft,” she murmured. His rough tongue flashed out, licking her wrist, trying to convey that he appreciated the gesture. She squeaked in surprise but did not remove her hand.

“Mother.” Mycroft’s surprised voice sounded from the woman’s other side.

The woman jumped, her hand leaving his head. “Mycy! I didn’t realize that you were still awake.”

“I’ll be going to bed after I let my _brother_ out,” he said, emphasizing the word brother, though his eyes remained soft and kind.

“Out?” their mother asked, turning to look down at him before directing her attention back to the man who could actually answer the question. “Why are you going out? Why is he going out?”

“Because, Mother,” the statesman stated, “There is a severely wounded wolf outside that wants to bring us harm. At this point in time, Sherlock is the only one who can do a thing about it.”

“Why?” she asked, her eyes wide and a hand came to rest on his head again, protectively.

“He’s the only one immune to your youngest offspring’s venom and the only one with the nose to track him if he is, indeed, close by as we believe he may be.” Mycroft bent, the worn red leather of the collar between his hands.

The detective raised himself to sit, displeased that the collar was being used but aware that, even in the countryside, there were people who lived nearby. He didn’t want to be confused for what he actually was. With the leather band securely in place, his identification tags tucked behind it, he rose and trotted off down the hallway, bounding down the stairs and waited, patiently, by the front door.

“You think that we’re targets?” his mother murmured, obviously scared, to Mycroft.

“Oh, yes,” the man breathed, completely serious. “He’s threatened you multiple times. Of course, with your genetics, you’d be fine, as would I. Father, on the other hand, well...we have yet to solve our Turned problem.”

The older woman blanched, color draining from her face. “Please, Sherlock,” she said, facing him from the stairs as Mycroft opened the front door, “Be careful.”

He huffed, giving a nod, and trotted off into the night. The country, with it’s open spaces, hummed about him, buzzing with life. The feel of grass under his pads, dirty collecting in the curve of his claws, and branches combing and tangling his coat made him miss the open moor of Baskerville. As much as he loved Evelyn and John, they would never make up for the complete feeling of freedom that nights like this one provided.

His ears whirled about his head, chasing the noises of the night. Crickets chirped happily, frogs croaked, looking for mates, and even small creatures scurried about on their little paws, collecting and storing the necessities for the coming winter. Part of him wanted to stray from his task and give chase, bring his Pack something from his hunt. A trophy, a meal, a toy.

With a silent exhale he suppressed the instinct and continued on his way, moving further and further away from his parents’ home and deeper into the untamed woods. The undergrowth was not as thick as he had expected, the density of the tree branches blocking both the moonlight and the sunlight from reaching the forest’s floor. Rotting leaves, needles and wood filled his nose, making him sneeze at the unfamiliar scent. He trekked for about a mile on that trajectory before turning west and beginning a circle, the house at the center. If Sherrinford was planning on making a move against their parents, he would not want to have to travel far for surveillance. A mile only took about ten minutes to cover at a stiff trot, plenty close enough to escape and hide quickly while far enough away that he wouldn’t draw attention to himself.

About two hours into his circle (four-fifths completed), he caught exactly what he was looking for. The scent was faint, nearly nonexistent. _Obviously due to his lack of the scent canceling soap. It’s slowly returning. Or he’s already left and I’m chasing a ghost_.

Hoping that it was the first and not the latter, he crept along the scent trail, nose pressed nearly to the musty soil. His eyes caught traces of blood, old and dried, lingering on the undergrowth. The sight made him nervous. Sherrinford would not have been so careless, would he? Even with the wounds he had sustained. _Caution advised: Could be a trap_.

The twisted tree roots threw an eerie shadow across the clearing. The roots were interwoven, leaving a gap, large enough for an animal ( _Or a wolf_ ) to fit through but not large enough for an adult human. Cautiously, very aware that he was heading into another wolf’s territory, he slid through the roots which slowly gave way to a large, natural cave.

The scent of Sherrinford Holmes was thick, clinging to the stale air along with the stench of drying blood and infection. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

His ears instantly went back, snarling and baring his fangs at the younger man. Sherrinford was worse for wear, of that he knew at first glance. Both bullets were still lodged within him, the wounds leaking and festering. His blue eyes were wide, defiant yet wary, his nostrils flared in pain while capturing his own scent. He was naked and shivering, unable to hold his form in his pain.

Suddenly, his drive to find and kill the man flew from him. The man was dying, that much was obvious, and he would continue to die a slow and painful death unless something, or someone, gave him medical attention. With a shuddering breath, he crept closer, his long, curled stomach fur scraping along the compact dirt floor.

A shaking hand reached towards him, weak from blood loss, allowing him to sniff it. His protective instincts rushed through him and his tongue captured the phalanges, tasting dried blood, dirt and sweat. _Family. Fever. Death_.

He whined sympathetically while his human logic screamed at him to run. To leave the man who was responsible for the suffering of nearly a thousand young men. Their lives, ruined beyond repair. Yet...he smelled of Pack, of family.

The younger man’s auburn hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes shining and bright with fever. He couldn’t leave him, not like this. Lunging, he grabbed the juncture of the man’s neck and shoulder, his teeth breaking the surface. Sherrinford screamed, the venom in his bite forcing the shift within him.

He stepped back, watching the other wolf writhe into existence in under a minute. The wolf whined, his sides heaving. The detective shifted his grip to the back of the wounded wolf’s neck and yanked, backing up as he went, pulling him through the roots and out into the night air. Sherrinford had passed out at some point during his yanking, not that he was worried about the younger wolf getting away. The bullet in his shoulder as well as the one in his side would keep him from getting too far. It was a miracle that he had made it to Oxford from London at all, though he had obviously spent all of his energy doing so.

Heavy footsteps, those of his brother, reached his ears. He was glad that Mycroft had insisted on placing a tracker into his collar. Once he had stopped, or appeared stationary for more than five minutes, the other man was going to set out and find him.

“Sherlock?” his voice cut through the silence of the forest. He yipped, standing over his younger sibling protectively. “Are you alright?”

Again, he yipped, allowing the sound to fall into a whine. “You found Sherrinford.” It was a statement, not a question. Slowly, he stepped aside, revealing the heaving body. He bent his head and licked the younger man’s ear, showing Mycroft that he was protecting him. “Let’s get him restrained and then I’ll find a vet.”

He yowled. “Fine,” his brother sighed, “I’ll cancel all of John’s appointments for the week and get him out here.”


	33. The Other One

He could not get his eyes to focus. He supposed it was the drugs that the Human doctor had pumped into his veins. His nose was equally dull, though he continued to analyze what was around him through it. _Bleach. Gauze. Metal. Human (John Watson - tea and wool and gunpowder), Wolf (Sherlock - chemicals and takeaway), Parents and other Brother, Egyptian cotton, wool._

His ears, however, were as sharp as ever. The Human had extracted the bullets and sedated him as he recovered. The process had involved a good deal of cursing, seeing as he was a human doctor and not a veterinarian. Sherlock, who had barely left his side, much to his annoyance, had insisted. In case he shifted back and the vet they called found a man lying on the mattress, tangled in the expensive sheets.

Not that the drugs would allow him to reclaim his human shape. Not that he had the strength to shift. Not that he particularly wanted to. This shape, the one that had taken his family from him, it made him strong. It was something that his older brother had just begun to realize.

The door swung open with a squeak, causing him to open his blurry eyes in an attempt to see his visitor. His nose picked up the traces of tea and crayons and his ears picked up the short but metered strides of a military man. _The army doctor._ His tail wagged once, subconsciously.

“Well,” the human said with a sigh, sitting in the chair beside the bed that he had been laid out on, “You’re looking better.”

The snap of latex, caused him to jump, but warned him of the hands that were laid on his healing wounds. They poked and prodded, the latex pulling at his fur and making him growl softly, not threatening, but relaying his discomfort. It did nothing to dissuade the doctor who just clucked his tongue at him, chiding him as if he were a pet or a petulant child. The fingers left his shoulder and ran along his ribs, checking the cracked and damaged bones before checking the other bullet wound, the one given by the policeman. It was ironic, how this man had wounded him, nearly killed him, and now, was healing him.

“These will scar.” The man stated the fact that he already knew. Bullets, lodged in his flesh for nearly three days and through two transformations would certainly leave scars, the skin puckering. “But,” the doctor said clinically, “You should make a full recovery in the next couple of days. I’m going to cut back on your meds, though I suggest that you remain in this form for another week or so. Let the New Moon pull you back. It’s easier that way - at least that’s what Sherlock says.”

He whined, indicating that he understood, before he closed his eyes again, wanting sleep to take him again. He was bored. This was the longest that he had gone without stimulation, without a distraction. Without a goal.

He had achieved the last one, or as well as he could have, given the circumstances. So he had been a bit overdramatic. So he had turned a few people. He had gotten the attention of his family and brought Britain to it’s knees in the process, proving that he was, in fact, a true Holmes. If his family rejected him again, he’d have another. One that could not deny him. He had made them, after all.

All except Sherlock. If he had known that the detective was the missing piece, the connection that he needed to get to the people who had seen him as something less than human, he would have stopped there. Then his adopted father, an uncle twice removed in truth, would not have died, the doctor’s bullet tearing through his heart. Eliminating the only person who had cared for him on the face of this planet.

It was because of that that he had begun this destructive path. If he was going to be alone, he’d at least share his misery with others. Many of them were alone to begin with - that’s what had made them so easy to take.

Then he had found the Beta, recently moved from Canada. He should have been easy to manipulate, easy to control, but the other wolf had proven himself to be wily. He had taken up his crusade after the first thirty, turning all the rest. And killing that girl. He had been the one to scare her away that morning, all bark and no bite. How could he have known that St. Pierre would follow her and tear her throat out? How could he have known that the genius detective that his brother claimed to be would pin the crime on him? How could he have known that the Beta would track Molly Hooper, his sister-in-law, giving him the imperative to protect her even though they had only met once?

What he did know was that the other man was still out there and that he’d have no way of stopping him for another week. And even then, would his family believe him? They had taken him in, but only at the insistence of Sherlock and his surprising paternal instincts. Would it be enough?

______________________________________________

The collar, with the battery powered taser pressed firmly against his skin, was choking him. Figuratively, of course, though it certainly was tight. Unable to stop the urge, his right hind leg came up and scratched at it, sending it and the new identification tags, courtesy of his eldest sibling, jangling.

HOLMES, J. SHERRINFORD

1863 LEICESTER GARDENS

OXFORD, UK

Baskerville Research Facility, Dartmoor, UK

LUPUS SAPIEN

dob: 2/9/1981

Natural Born

He loathed them. Claiming to know everything about him and staking a claim on his life. But, at the same time, the tags represented his acclimatization into English society. The address stamped into the metal was that of his parents’, of his family home. If they hadn’t wanted him, would they have claimed him?

His nostrils flared, someone was coming. _Chemicals, takeaway, forest. Sherlock_. His tail began to wag, glad that his older brother still saw him now that he was recovered enough to move about the room that they placed him in. It was tiled with linoleum, in case, he assumed, he didn’t make it until his allotted bathroom break. There was a tangle of sheets and pillows, from the bed that he had recovered on, in the corner along with a couple of dishes. One was half filled with cool, clear water, the other empty at the moment but holding the promise of dinner.

A new scent reached his nose, stopping his tail. _Tea, wool, lavender, crayons. John Watson_. He whined, confused. His brother usually came and talked at him, noting but not often responding to his returned reactions. The doctor had stopped talking the day they put the collar on him. His presence now worried him.

The door opened with a light, oiled squeak. He backed away from the two men until his rump connected with the back wall, until he realized that it was not two men at all. The doctor was human, of course. His sibling was in his shaggy state, looking rather like a bedraggled mop. It was odd. The man took pride in his human appearance, and yet, he allowed himself to look unkempt as a wolf.

The dark wolf’s striking eyes locked onto him, his ears pitched forward, his body stiff and wary, his tail was stiff. He growled, low in his throat, soft but more of a warning than as a threat. This new wolf was encroaching on his territory but the wolf was his brother, allowing his human need for family and Pack to override his instinctual need for dominance.

Slowly, he flicked his ears forward and raised his tail, giving it a small wag. _Hello, Sherlock. Friend. Family. Pack._

The detective’s ears twitched back and forth, before his tail also gave a hesitant wag. _Friends? Pack?_

Sherrinford smiled, allowing his tongue to loll out of his mouth jovially. The action was mirrored by Sherlock, who turned, brushing past the doctor and trotted out, looking over his shoulder at him, inclining his head. He whined, not understanding. _Are you mocking me? Because you are loved. You are free and I am trapped, both figuratively and literally._

“Come on.” The soldier gestured him toward the door. “Don’t you want out?” He laid his ears back but took a couple of steps forward. The doctor blocked the door, hands crossed over his chest, a stern turn to his mouth. “Here’s how this is going to work, Sherrinford. You behave with Sherlock, you’ll be given a longer leash. New Moon is in two days. I’m sure you’d like to see something besides the inside of the mud room and the fenced in backyard.”

He nodded, showing that he understood. He did want out. He wanted to be seen as part of the family, not just a prisoner that needed to kept and held. The soldier, never removing his hard gaze, took a couple of steps to the side. “Come on, then. Sherlock doesn’t like to wait.”

Taking the invitation before it was rescinded, he trotted out the door, his claws clicking sharply along the hallway and towards the open door. No one else came to see him in his quasi-freedom. His tail dropped infinitesimally, disappointed. Still the disgrace of the family, then. Even if Sherlock was the exact same as he was.

The sunlight, blue sky, fresh air and the feeling of grass beneath his pads reinvigorated him, however. He yowled his joy to the world before taking off at a run, ripping into the grass and dirt, sending it spraying as he followed the other wolf’s trail. Sherlock was waiting for him, playfully bowed with his teeth bared at him. He growled playfully, hopping a bit from side to side.

The next thing he knew, he was toppling over and over. Teeth lightly nipped at his ears, his neck. Claws raked his sides in companionable play. He retaliated with the same jovial attitude, giving as good as he got. His maw remained open, huffing and nipping, never biting. The fun of having a playmate, one that he could not harm. His brother. It was like nothing he had experienced in his rather solitary life.


	34. Mycroft

The pair of wolves, romping and play-fighting about the yard made him smile. He let the lacy curtain fall back. Sherlock was right. Sherrinford was not what they had originally thought.

“What is it, Darling?” His mother’s soft voice turned his attention from the window.

He gave her a calculated look. “Congratulations, Mother,” he said as his smiled tightened, “It’s a boy.”

His mother’s head tilted slightly to the side, confused. He continued, turning back to the window. “Sherrinford, Mother. He’s back in our lives and is a part of this family.”

“But what about all the crimes he’s committed. Those poor men he turned?”

“All to get our attention. To prove that he was just as valuable a Holmes as myself or Sherlock. And, now that you’ve accepted one wolf into your home, you cannot deny the younger one. Not anymore.” He turned away from the window. “Besides, Mother, I think that he’s the missing link.”

The older woman strode towards the couch and sat down, patting the cushion beside her. “The missing link to what?”

“Our influx of werewolves, of course,” he replied, taking the seat beside the woman. “He began it but something tells me that he wasn’t the one who turned them all. Also, he was raised among the wolves on the continent. He knows more about their culture than anyone else. He can help me fix the mess I’ve made. He is a Holmes, after all.”

“Can you be sure, Mycy?” his mother whispered.

He gave a nod, gesturing towards the window. She rose and pulled the thin curtain back, seeing her two youngest ‘children’ playing in the yard under the faithful watch of the doctor. She smiled at the pair: the dark, shaggy Sherlock, and the auburn-brown Sherrinford. “Your father never wanted to give him up, you know,” she murmured, “But when he shifted in my arms, my heart stopped. My family secret, long buried, was revealed. My little boy, taken from my breast and replaced by an animal. But I insisted that he go, even when your father said we could raise him. I said it wasn’t safe to have a wild animal in the house and so I got in contact with my family on the continent. They came and took him away, still a puppy, his eyes closed, his fur thin and soft.” Her hand stroked thin air, as if the pup was still nestled into her hand. “I tried to convinced myself, and your father, that it was for the best. We, after all, were susceptible to his bite once his milk teeth fell out. We were not wolves, we could never raise one. He’d have a better life, we believed, among his own kind.”

“So you erased him from your life and ours and hid that knowledge from us,” he intoned at his mother’s back. “Until Sherlock.”

She laughed. “He always had a knack for getting into trouble.” She shook her greying head. “Middle child syndrome.” Her heterochromic eyes returned to the window and the playing pair beyond. “They look so happy, so carefree. Almost makes me wish I could do it all over again. Make a better decision.”

____________________________________________

After his little afternoon romp through the manicured lawns with the supervision of Sherlock and John, Sherrinford joined the family for dinner. He was, as per John’s orders, still in his four legged form. After preparing their meals separately from the cooks (They were generally confused by the large influx of beef that had accumulated over the last week. Sherlock had informed them that it was for an experiment), his brother had rejoined him in his four-legged form, consuming the raw cow with gusto.

There was little conversation, the wolves stealing the attention of the four humans at the table. His parents were rather appalled, his father more so than his mother, uncomfortably watching the long, sharp teeth tear into the flesh like it was paper. To his credit, John didn’t flinch, used to watching Sherlock for the Moon and used to his atrocious eating habits. The other man, however, sat stiffly, his Sig tucked into his waistband - just in case.

“This is delightful isn’t it?” he said as the serving staff took away the main course. “The whole family back together again?”

His mother jumped at the noise, surprised to hear words for the first time since they had all sat down. The wolves were panting lightly, licking their chops and lounging side by side in front of the fire place. Sherlock’s head was resting on Sherrinford’s shoulders while the other wolf’s tail wagged slowly. “We’re not all back together, Son,” his father said quietly.

The dark head of Sherlock flew up with a low growl. “Oh, Sherlock,” the older man chided with a small smile and a shake of his head, “Not during dinner. Besides, we are not whole, as we are missing our Molly, the twins, Evelyn, and dear Mrs. Hudson. We should send for them. Redo Christmas but with all the important people.” His spoon sliced through the bread pudding that was laid before him. “How about this weekend, Wanda? Could we be ready for guests?”

Sherrinford shifted beside Sherlock, his ears flickering to and fro. “New Moon’s Friday,” the doctor intoned, very much aware of his patient’s upcoming forced transformation. “I will ask Mrs. Hudson to bring Evelyn on Saturday.” He took a strong sip of tea, betraying his worry regarding the Natural Born wolf.

In all honesty, Sherrinford seemed thoroughly content to be as he was, in a state of partial house arrest. It was almost too easy, catching him. It made him wonder if their problem, that had obviously originated with his youngest brother, was no longer something that he had any control over ( _Another twenty had been Turned on the last Full Moon when Sherrinford had been otherwise engaged_ ). If another had heard that England lacked a pack and had taken it upon himself to continue to tear that nation apart, creating more and more Turned wolves, he shuddered. His youngest brother’s attempt had led to his Laws. Then the Registration, and, with it, the oppression of his brothers’ people. Hopefully, once returned to his more verbal form, the young man would be forth coming with his information. And would be able to help him and England rise from their knees to stop the rogue wolf.

_______________________________________________________

Friday, promptly at sunset, Sherlock seated beside him, Sherrinford twisted and turned back into his human shape. It was relatively quick and, seemingly painless. He had never seen the young man before, though Sherlock’s description was apt. With his sharp cheekbones, striking blue eyes, brown-auburn hair with it’s slight wave, and tall, thin frame, he was certainly a Holmes.

As the other man stretched, rubbing out his neck, where the collar hung loosely along with his tags, their middle brother cocked an eyebrow and offered a robe. The detective gave a small cough as the other man took the offered robe. “Cheers, mate,” the younger man said jovially, sliding the fine silk over his lean frame.

“We need to talk,” the statesman cut in to the moment. “Sooner rather than later.”

With a slight blush along his cheekbones, the other man’s face became serious. “Yes, of course.” He rose, gathering his tall body beneath him as if he hadn’t spent the last two weeks on four legs. “Anything you would like, Mr. Holmes.”

“Don’t call him that,” Sherlock cut in, barely disguised disgust in his voice, “He has people for that. Besides, if his head gets any bigger, he won’t fit through the door.”

“Must you always be so immature, Sherlock?” he shot back, his ego smarting a bit. He turned to face the taller man. “We should adjourn to the study. If you’ll follow me?”

He turned, striding out of the mud room at the back of the house and to the large, mahogany office/library near the front. It had originally been built for his mother, when she was a working mathematician. It had been one of the many gifts that their father had used to woo her. He, himself, would have been an impressive man, and was (As an Oxford professor of the classics), until the children were born. Needless to say, neither Mummy or Daddy knew quite what to do with the two geniuses they had created much less with the wolf pup.

Regardless, the library remained, and he had acquired it as one of his country offices. A nice retreat, away from the hustle and bustle of London. He took his traditional seat, behind the great mahogany desk, gesturing for his two younger sibling to take the over-stuffed leather armchairs across from him. Sherlock threw himself into one while Sherrinford was a bit more hesitant, as if afraid that sitting would be some offense.

Cutting to the chase, his fingers steepled, just as Sherlock was wont to do, he fixed his youngest sibling in his gaze and asked, “Why did you attack my wife?”

The younger man ducked his head in submission, rubbing the back with a soft, “Eh,” the tags and collar clinking together. His blue eyes met his own hard pair. “I wasn’t attacking her. I was protecting her.”

“By leaping on top of her, mouth open, on the night of the Full Moon?” he shot back. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair, slouching around his vestigial tail. He assumed that the younger man, sitting ramrod straight, had one as well.

Sherrinford’s eyes flashed and he leaned forward, almost threateningly. “I was protecting her. I did Turn the first group, but only out of anger. And fear. I had seen the man that raised me gunned down before my eyes. I was alone and lone wolves do not live long. After the first thirty, I did not Turn anyone else. I had caught up with the wolf that was responsible and the genius detective over here -” He inclined his head toward Sherlock who growled in his throat before he continued, “Got him off a murder charge that could have ended our issues or at least kept him contained.”

“Matthew St. Pierre - a _Beta_ \- is the one turning all of the wolves?” Sherlock hissed, leaning in towards his younger sibling and raising his head to display his dominance. “And you’re telling us that you - a _Natural Born Alpha_ \- could not stop him. Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

The younger man raised his chin, asserting his dominance over the dark-haired man. “He fooled me too, Brother. He’s a talented liar. I’ll bet that Mr. St. Pierre is long gone by now. He was going to take your Molly, Brother. I tracked him, as I did with the other girl, and I pretended to take her before he could. She is a beautiful mate, but not the one for me.” His face softened, a small smile playing at his lips. He bowed his head with a sigh. “I am sorry about those first thirty people. I-I was angry and depressed and lost in my instincts and the Moon and I acted rashly. It was never my intention to build a Pack, I only needed to mourn the loss of the only family I had. I had had hopes, _awful - horrible_ hopes that Sherlock’s Pack would reject him and that he’d come find me. And we’d be Pack. And I’d finally be a part of the family I always wanted. That’s all I ever wanted, to have my original family love me. Especially after they accepted you.”

His deep blue eyes, slightly teary, fell on Sherlock’s mercurial ones. “What made you so different from me?”


	35. The Army Doctor

He was incredibly nervous as the car with his daughter and landlady pulled up to the steps of his best friend’s parents’ country estate. It wasn’t that a trip to the country was not earned. It certainly wasn’t because he didn’t want to have his child with him. He had missed her terribly in the last two weeks. No, he was worried about Sherrinford. He didn’t trust the man. He had, of course, seen the human version of Sherrinford and had to admit that there was certainly a family resemblance between the three Holmes brothers. He was more worried, however, that the man, who had been rather quiet and unobtrusive for the last evening and this morning, was playing them. He was a Wolf and he could change on a whim. Sherlock certainly did.

The car pulled to a stop, gravel crunching. The vehicle had barely come to a halt when his daughter, her blonde curls bouncing and her arms wide. He bent, scooping her up and swinging her around as she laughed and shrieked. “Daddy! Daddy! Put me down!”

A little dizzy, he stopped and hugged her tighter, knowing that her feet were kicking in the open air. Placing a big kiss on her cheek, he chuckled, “Do you know that I’ve missed you so much, Angel?”

“Of course, Daddy,” she said, kissing him back. “I missed you too, though-” Her voice dropped conspiratorially, “Nana spoils me.”

He laughed, bouncing her a bit so that he could hold her on his hip, easing his back a bit. “I already knew that, Evy, but thank you for telling me anyway. Would you like me to talk to Mrs. Hudson about that?”

Her eyes, beautiful and blue, widened and her face became worried. “NO!”

“Okay, my Darling, if you insist. I will continue to let her spoil you rotten.” He gave her curls another kiss before looking to older landlady as she exited the car, moaning about her hip and her herbal soothers. “Thank you for watching Evelyn for the last couple of weeks, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock is apparently unable to go to any other doctor.”

“Oooh, it’s fine Dear,” she waved his gratitude off. “We both know Sherlock and his _peculiarities_. She’s an angel anyway. Always nice to have her to myself.” She smiled, brushing the child’s blushing cheek before making her way into the house.

“Daddy,” his daughter whispered into his ear while looking behind him at the rather expansive country estate house, “Does Uncle Shock live here?”

He gave the blonde girl another squeeze before setting her down and grabbing her bag. “No, he lives below us, Silly Goose.” He started walking towards the house, glad to have his little one’s hand back in his own. “This is where Uncle Shock’s parents live.”

“Are they my grandparents too?” she asked, her eyes wide, taking in the wealth that surrounded her.

“It’s up to them, Evy, though I think they’d really like that.” He beamed down at her. “Would you like to meet them.” She nodded, smiling at him. “Okay, let’s go. And please remember your manners while you’re here.”

She rolled her enormous eyes at him before responding, “Of course, Daddy.” She gave his hand a tug and skipped lightly up the steps, already making him feel buoyant and much younger. His worry still persisted, but it had settled more to the back of his mind than it had been before.

Evelyn was instantly welcomed as an honorary Holmes grandchild, Timothy and Wanda realizing, quite rightly, that Sherlock was never going to have children of his own. Especially after his transformation and the obvious cross over between his canine and human attributes. And his ability to be an enormous git. On second thought, it was _certainly_ the latter.

Molly and the twins came in from the city just in time for dinner, the twins shrieking to high heaven. “They’re teething,” the mortuary apologized, passing little Nathaniel off to her husband the instant she walked through the door. Sherlock winced visibly, the sound obviously bothering his hyper-sensitive ears. Sherrinford simply looked wary and slightly annoyed, having lived with the sharpened senses his entire life. He had, thankfully, chosen to sit as far away from the children as possible, putting Sherlock between himself and the rest of their family. John, of course, still had his trusted Browning tucked into the back of his pants, ready for anything.

“Shall we adjourn to the dining room?” Mrs. Holmes asked as the babies quieted, suckling on their bottles contentedly. “Before our dinner gets cold?”

It was rather easy to see where the elder two Holmes boys got their rather forward personalities. Though, again like their mother, both could beat around the bush rather thoroughly at the most annoyingly inconvenient times. The family walked into the dining room, sitting around the table uncomfortably. Their father took the head, the matriarch the foot. Sherrinford sat beside his Mother with Sherlock on his other side. Across from him sat Mycroft, causing the younger man to look incredibly uncomfortable. It was a precaution, just in case, as they would not have horribly adverse side effects if bitten. Of course, it was the New Moon and even a Natural Born wolf could not hold his four-legged shape, but John was glad for the distance.

He was seated on Sherlock’s other side, Evelyn on his other side beside her new grandfather, who was promptly sliding a piece of chocolate under her plate with a wink. The doctor gave her a look that told her that she needed to eat her dinner before her dessert before smiling at her. She gave him a wink before making a face at the twins that sat across from her. They giggled, their chubby little fingers playing through their cereal and tiny bites of apple.

“Well,” Timothy intoned from the head of the table, “Isn’t this wonderful? Our beautiful family together and whole at last!” He looked so delighted that it broke his heart. The man had obviously not wanted to give his youngest child up, considering how he treated every person that entered under his roof. His wife looked wary still, maybe due to her closeness to their ‘new’ addition, maybe due to her initial rejection of the young man and his reaction to it. Either way, the only truly positive response to that announcement came from his daughter who cheered enthusiastically through the half-smiles and the less-than enthusiastic responses.

It surprised him that Sherlock was the most open and engaged with their newest member, chatty almost conspiratorially with him. It caused a rather odd stir to rise in his chest. It wasn’t that Sherlock paid him much attention regularly, but he felt that he was being changed over for a new model. One who could keep up with the other man’s brilliant mind as well as his other form.

“What is it you do, Sherrinford?” Molly asked politely, being her usual forgiving and kind self.

The lean man with the auburn hair smiled, looking down at the table. “I had the privilege of having a rather high-class education on the continent before attending Cambridge where I received a double first in Classics as well as a degree in Veterinary medicine that’s come in handy once or twice. My...father...tended to get into...disagreements quite often and someone needed to patch him up. I’ve had the mind to go back, get a medical degree. After all, with the influx of Turned, there should be a doctor or two that knows how to tend to them.”

“I dare say,” Mycroft interjected, “I could use a man of your expertise at Baskerville and the like. It had been impossible for me to find a decent veterinary who is willing to patch them up.”

Sherrinford smiled, actually smiled, his lips pressed firmly together (Again reminding him of Sherlock’s tight-lipped smiles. Maybe it was a wolf thing?). “I would be honored, Mycroft,” he murmured as Sherlock clapped him firmly on the back. “It seems the least I could do, seeing as I started this unfortunate ball rolling.”

It surprised him to find the younger Holmes waiting for him outside of his room that evening. He had put Evelyn to bed with a bit of difficulty. It seemed that ‘Papa’ Holmes had given her more than the one chocolate, leaving him with an extremely hyper five year old. Shocked at the lean form that was standing, hands hanging at his sides, by his door, he jumped with a small gasp.

“I’m terribly sorry, Doctor,” the young man said, “I did not mean to startle you. I just...I was wondering if we could talk.”

Unable to refuse the man in what was pretty much his own home, he gestured him into his room. “Have a seat.” The lanky man folded his body into the desk chair, leaving the bed for him. He sat, very aware of the warmed metal of his gun barrel that was pressed into his back as well as the incredibly dangerous man who sat across from him. “What can I help you with, Sherrinford?” He cleared his throat.

“Um...yes, Doctor Watson,” he replied, titling his head slightly, making the soldier’s brow furrow at the submissive gesture. “I wanted to thank you for your kindness while I was...ill. You could have killed me easily, or told Sherlock to shove it and left me to die. I am in your debt.”

“I’m a doctor, something that you apparently understand,” he replied.

“You’re a soldier,” the other man responded, cocking his head the other way and raising his chin slightly, taking back the authority in the room. Or responding to the threat of his military prowess, it was difficult to tell.

“I was. It is very much in my past,” he replied, crossing his legs and bowing his head slightly.

The other man smirked, again his lips pressed together. “Not according to my elder brother. It seems that your expertise has come in handy rather often on your adventures together.”

“Well,” he sighed, breaking eye contact with the wolf, “It seems that he won’t be needing me any more. Not when he has you.”

Much to his annoyance, Sherrinford laughed, tossing back his auburn curls in mirth. “Doctor Watson,” he gasped, wiping tears from his blue eyes, “Believe me when I tell you that Sherlock is not going to desert you for me. He’d never do that.”

“Then why...?”

The younger man held up and hand gently, still chuckling a bit. “He is sympathetic towards me and he seems to have a rather protective paternal streak in him. He views me as I am: a younger sibling who had made some rather poor choices and is stuck with the consequences. He is my Mycroft and, for lack of a better comparison, _you_ are his Molly.”

“Excuse me?” the doctor asked, leaning forward and blinking dumbly, not believing it for a minutes. “I’m his what?”

“You are his Molly, is his rather roundabout, asexual way.” Sherrinford smiled softly. “Wolves are not solitary creatures, Doctor. We crave Pack and, above all else, we crave a mate within that Pack. Sherlock has created his Pack, a rather odd one, though I cannot complain, as I believe that I have joined it. And you, John Watson, are his mate.”

“I’m not gay.” He felt like he said that way too often.

“Neither is Sherlock,” the young man replied, crossing his legs and leaning back. “That doesn’t mean that you are not his mate, the one person whom he cares for most. The one whose opinion truly matters. Think about it, Doctor, and you will find it to be true.”

After a brief pause, the wolf rose. “I am glad that we had this talk, Doctor Watson,” he said softly, “I hope you have a pleasant evening. And, thank you again for your kindness and medical attentions.” He gave another closed-lipped smile and exited the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

_Sherlock - the unfeeling git - thought of him as his ‘mate.’ ‘Mate’ - that word had so many implications. What did it honestly **mean**? He was not one to cater to the whims and wishes of anyone but somehow the bloody consulting detective got him to do the most ridiculous things for him. Without any questions! What did that mean? Did that make him subordinate to the other man? He certainly wasn’t gay. He liked Sherlock, but as his best mate. His best friend. His best man (Though he had missed the wedding). He was **not** attracted to Sherlock Holmes in that way. Right? He had gotten a bit jealous, thinking that the dark-haired man was going to pass him over for the younger, improved model of his brother. Sherrinford had certainly noticed._

He sighed, completing his toilet and crawling into his bed. He was going to have to speak with Sherlock in the morning, sort this out before it got out of hand and he was expected to do something that he might regret later. Because God knows he couldn’t say no to the werewolf. He never could.


	36. Sherrinford and Evelyn

It was certainly nice to sleep in a bed, especially after a half month of wolf form, including roughing it in his makeshift den as he bled out from his bullet wounds. It was almost too soft, making him toss and turn a bit before sleep took him. The morning broke, and he rose with it, a habit that came with his natural instincts. Unless it was the day after a shift, then he made up for his late night.

He was not surprised to discover that he was the only person up besides the small serving staff. The cook instantly set upon him, asking what he wanted to eat and grabbing him the morning paper, ushering him to a chair at the table. It was an odd thing, being waited upon in ‘his own home.’ He was pretty sure that he did not like it. It made him feel exceedingly pretentious. The sooner he could set up a more permanent location, away from his parents’ old-fashioned need for staff, the better.

Still, he ate his breakfast and consumed his coffee with gratitude and without complaint, making sure that the cook knew that he appreciated her efforts. No one else had risen while he ate, so he continued his normal routine. He exited the house via one of the back doors that led to the garden, shed his robe, and shifted, relishing in the crisp morning air that played through his fur and the cool dew that coated his padded feet. Stretching and yawning, he set off at a trot, beginning his morning jog at a brisk but reasonable pace. His feet led him through the garden, immaculately kept, and to the open field that served as the back lawn, the grass clipped short. He lengthened his stride, observing the space about him. His nose led him on a merry chase after a long passed rabbit as well as a fresher trail of two quarreling squirrels. Finally, feeling fresh and ready for the day, he rolled onto his back, soaking in the scent of the dewy earth and wound his way back to his robe shifting back into his more accepted form.

He ruffled his hair, checking his reflection in the glass of the patio door for any stray grass clippings or dirt smudges, and reentered the house. More people were up now. The twins were being fed and changed on the second floor in the east wing, Molly yawning and speaking in an oddly garbled language while Mycroft responded sharply in single syllables. Apparently neither of them were morning people. John was also awake and working out, having kept up part of his army work out regimen. _Good for him,_ he frowned, impressed. His parents were eating their breakfasts and Sherlock was sitting with them, not eating, as was his usual wont this close to the New Moon. Which left Evelyn...

A weight came crashing into his legs and made him jump. He wasn’t often surprised, especially not by children, and yet, there she was. Her blue eyes were wide and shining, her curls flying wildly about her face and her enormous smile, revealing her missing teeth. He tried not to growl at the display, reminding himself that she did not know, and, according to his elder brother, would not until John Watson said otherwise.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling (Lips pulled firmly over his teeth). He allowed a hand to stray to her back, giving her a quasi-hug in appreciation for the one that she had given him.

“Good morning Uncle Ford!” she replied, squeezing his legs tighter. His brow furrowed, confused a bit by her nickname for him as well as his sudden promotion to ‘uncle-hood.’ The robe was hiking up uncomfortably high under her affections. He patted her back gently, not really sure what to do with a child. He had never truly been around them before, outside of his own youth, and even then, rather rarely. Werewolves kept their young, prone to change at the slightest whim, in isolation until they could be boarded at schools that did not ask questions.

“I really should be going,” he said, swallowing, suddenly nervous. The child showed no fear. While she did not know anything regarding his true self, he was still a stranger. Of course, she had just called him uncle.

“Why?” she asked, blinking up at him, wide grin still on her face, even as it was off-set by her widened, blue eyes.

“I should put some clothes on,” he quickly responded, feeling the silk of the dressing gown crawl higher up the leg that she clung too like a life raft. “And you should get breakfast.”

“You should eat too,” Evelyn shot back, yanking on his leg while still gripping it viciously. “Daddy says that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

He nodded, giving her a tight-lipped smile. “Your Daddy is a very smart man. What else does he say?”

Her face became sad, almost melancholic. “He says that I shouldn’t talk to you. He says that you’re dangerous. But you’re not dangerous. You’re nice and funny. Like Uncle Shock.” Her smile returned, causing him to shudder a bit.

“Your Daddy is right, Evelyn,” he said quietly, evenly. “I can be very dangerous. It would be better if you didn’t talk to me, or give me hugs. It’d be better if you left me alone.”

The heat of the little body pressed against his leg dropped away, leaving him looking down at a pair of huge, watery eyes. “But no one should ever be alone, Uncle Ford,” she whispered, “So I’m not going to let you be alone.”

Unthinking, he brushed a hand through her curls, a morose smile on his lips.

“EVELYN!” The doctor’s voice rang through the house. The man had left his room and was walking down the stairs of the main foyer, probably wondering where his only child could be in the vast home of the Holmes.

“Go.” He gave her a small nudge towards the door. “Your father is looking for you.”

She turned and skipped through the opening, stopping in the doorway to turn back and give him an enormous smile and a wave. “I’ll see you later, Uncle Ford!”

He waved back at her retreating curls, his heart melting at the unearned and unconditional love of the child. _______________________________________________

“When can I leave for Baskerville?” he asked again, waiting for his eldest sibling to be straight with him. His agitation was rousing his instincts and he found himself biting back a growl, low in his throat. “It is obvious that I am not wanted here.”

“No one said that you are not wanted,” Sherlock interjected, plucking the strings idly on his violin with his long, tapered fingers.

“No one has to _say_ that I am not wanted. It is written in their body language. You can feel it too.” His hard gaze drilled into the older man who was slouched in an armchair as if he had no care in the world.

“I can,” the detective intoned, striking another perfect fifth on his instrument, “I simply choose to ignore it.”

“Besides,” the British Government cut in from his post by the window, “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? A family?” The man smiled at what he saw, probably Evelyn running about with John while Molly sat on a blanket with the twins. He turned to face the room. “Families don’t always _like_ each other, Sherrinford. This one more than most.”

He did growl then, done pretending to be what he wasn’t. “Families don’t keep secrets,” he grumbled.

“If you’re referring to John’s wish to keep Evelyn from our world, that is not a decision you can overturn. Those are John’s wishes. All the adults know anyway, that should be all that matters.” Sherlock continued to strum away at his violin. It grated on his nerves and made him want to take the instrument and smash it against a wall, or crush it in his jaws. “If you would like to go out this evening, I would be more than willing to run with you, _Brother._ ”

Ignoring the obvious goading from the older, dark haired man, he gave a single nod. “That would be good. Thank you.”

Sherlock grinned. “It’s settled then. Tonight, we’ll run.”

_____________________________________________

The grass felt wonderful, even beneath his bare, human feet. The light breeze rippled the the dressing gown that he had slung around his thin frame. He inhaled, feeling more at peace. He always did. Today he had realized what had made Sherlock different from himself. Sherlock, the genius consulting detective, was a full-time man and a part-time wolf. He, in contrast, was a full-time wolf and a part-time man, strangled by societal conventions that the humans so rigorously enforced. Sherlock was born and raised human, he was born and raised wolf. That made all the difference in the end. As refined as he attempted to be, he would never be viewed by those who knew his secret as human.

The moon was rising, spreading it’s rays over the trees of the surrounding forest, calling to him. It made his blood sing back, calling the wolf forth and to the surface, his center of gravity shifting as he released his human form and welcomed the night with an undulating howl.

“Whoa.” The sound stopped him in his tracks, his ears flying backwards, his tail dropping.

“Evelyn!” John’s shouts reached his ears, still aimed back, across the lawn towards the house. “Evelyn! Where are you!?” The sound of thundering footsteps reached his ears now, growing steadily louder as the man drew closer. _Wood floors, stone patio, grass._ The wind carried the scent of John Watson to him along with worry and fear. His daughter’s scent caught his nostrils as well, flaring them as he scented her fear.

Slowly, he turned, keeping his ears focused on the ragged breathing of the soldier and the shallow gasps of the little girl. He kept his head low, his tail dropped but not tucked, his hackles slightly raised. He raised his eyes, knowing that they were still the same striking blue that they were in his human face. He whined, wanting to show the man and the girl that he meant them no harm.

“Evelyn,” John murmured, reaching a hand out and wrapping it around her slim shoulders, “Come inside now, Darling. Back away slowly.”

“Daddy,” the girl whispered, barely louder than a breath, “There’s a wolf in our backyard.”

“Yes, well, we’re not in the city anymore. Wild animals are all over the place out here.” His arm tightened, his other hand moving slowly to his back, where Sherrinford knew that he kept his illegal firearm. “Come inside, Angel. We can watch from the window, if he hasn’t run-off by then.”

Suddenly, a familiar howl split the night. Sherlock. His ears flew up, listening to the sound of his true, family, Pack. He took a couple of steps back. His brother howled again, a bit more urgently. He whined loudly, taking one last glance at the father and frightened daughter, before turning and sprinting to the woods. _Protection. Pack. Together. Run. Hunt._

Sherlock, his unruly curled coat catching the moonlight and turning it into shadow, watched him before woofing his hello. He nuzzled him at the crook of his jaw, inhaling his scent before snuffling it back out. _Thank you, Brother. Pack._ A deep, throaty grumble rumbled about in the other wolf’s chest ( _You’re welcome, Brother. Pack_ ).

With a small woof, he raised his tail and hind quarters into the air, hopping back and forth playfully. Sherlock looked at him disdainfully before snorting and trotting away. He whined, his inner pup disappointed by the older wolf’s rejection. A shadow, smelling distinctly of chemicals and takeaway, appeared in his peripheral vision, and promptly bowled him over into the back lawn of the country house.

_______________________________________

Up in the house, Evelyn cuddled in to her Dad’s warm, comforting side. His arms were wrapped around her, squeezing her tightly. “Are you afraid, My Angel?” he whispered into her hair.

“A little, Daddy,” she replied, her focus on the pair of wolves that were chasing and fighting with each other in the backyard of her grandparents’ house. “They’re so big!”

“Yes,” her father’s voice remained quiet and soothing in her ear. He placed a gentle kiss there. “But you’re safe now. And now you know not to wander off. There are literal wolves out there.”

They looked like they were having fun, in all honesty. Their jaws were snapping and their claws were scraping each other’s sides as their tails wagged ferociously. They didn’t seem terrifying from up here. They didn’t seem vicious. Instead they seemed to be overgrown puppies. She wished that she could join them and run about under the sliver of the moon that hung in the sky.

Her father picked her up into his very strong arms and carried her to her bed. “Let’s get you all tucked in, shall we?” he said, tickling her as he pulled the covers up and around her until she couldn’t move. She giggled, her limbs attempting to flail as his tickles crawled up her body through the blanket and his soft lips pressed onto her forehead. “Sleep well, Angel,” he whispered, placing another kiss on her brow.

“You too, Daddy,” she said beaming up at him around a yawn. He smiled, brushing a bit of her hair, still damp from her bath, from her forehead.

“I love you, Evelyn,” he murmured before retreating to the door and turning off the light. Her nightlight, a swirling lamp of stars, projected it’s light onto her ceiling as she snuggled deeper into the warm blankets. Usually she drifted off to sleep dreaming of princesses and puppies. Tonight, her thoughts were of wolves and men who became them.

 

 

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the middle of the sequel currently. It's a bit slow coming, but I ultimately know where I want it to go :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this work!


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